Iggy Stardust
by lithugraph
Summary: A/U: Before The Sex Pistols and The Clash, before Anarchy in the UK, before punk even had a name, there was Iggy. This is the story of the rise and fall of a star - or how a chance encounter in a pub changed Arthur Kirkland's life. USxUK, rated T for language, drug references, adult themes.
1. Hurdy Gurdy Man

**_A/N_** _Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but the name of Arthur's band and any song lyrics you might see in this fic are mine (except for the ones at the beginning of each chapter, those are property of the artist and noted as such with the song lyric in quotes, followed by the artist name and song title). The title is a play on one of David Bowie's stage personas, Ziggy Stardust. The chapter titles are song lyrics/titles. Obviously this fic, like so many of my others, will include music references. I tried to keep everything time period specific, meaning nothing after 1987. To better understand/familiarize yourself with the mood of the story, I encourage you, gentle reader, to check the songs out via the YouTube or the iTunes or good ol' fashioned record store (if any still exist). Geography note: Birkenhead is a city in England. It's across the Mersey River from Liverpool. Rated T for language, drug references, adult themes. Thank you for reading and enjoy!_

* * *

 ** _"'Tis then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man comes singing songs of love." ~ Donovan, Hurdy Gurdy Man_**

* * *

 **September, 1987**

The train ride from London to Birkenhead should have lasted only two and a half hours, but between the lorry smashing into a bridge abutment and the train ahead of theirs stalling, the journey took the better part of a day. Arthur spent the time humoring a couple of West German tourists who seemed all too eager to practice their English on him. For his part, he hardly uttered a word, keeping the largely one sided conversation flowing with a few shrugs or shakes of the head. When he felt particularly bold, he managed a nod. It wasn't that he found tourists annoying - on the contrary, he found their enthusiasm a bit endearing - it was more due to the fact he was annoyed with Germans in general at the moment. Well, maybe not _Germans_ as a whole. More like _Austrians,_ to be specific.

He had spent the week playing host to an up and coming Austrian composer who seemed rather indifferent to the idea of expanding his musical career beyond the borders of Europe. Hell, he barely conceded to cross the Channel and even meet with Arthur. After what seemed like endless negotiations, he finally deigned to make the trip to tour the studio and discuss production of his next album.

Needless to say, Arthur was more than thankful to be ending this week, even if it meant being stuck on a train with German tourists.

When he finally disembarked, the sun had well past set. His whole body ached as he hefted his bags up to the taxi stand. Arthur was always amazed to discover how much he hurt after sitting so long. Like his joints decided to seize up. He probably should just walk; his flat wasn't that far, and the night was mild...

But he was dead tired.

As he approached the cab stand, a group of rowdy teens ran past him, snagging the last cab. Arthur sighed and lit a cigarette. Well, that settled it.

He adjusted the strap on his briefcase, shifted his duffel, and started walking.

.

When he got to his flat, he let the bags drop just inside the door as he leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He needed to quit smoking.

A blinking red light on the hall table caught his attention.

Arthur peeled himself off the wall and shuffled over. The number five blinked incessantly up at him. Five messages on his answering machine. Most likely from Francis. He was supposed to have been at the pub four hours ago. Arthur groaned, pressing his fingers to his tired eyes. It was Sunday. He doubted very much his pub was seeing any action. But he had promised Francis he'd stop by after his trip. And Francis liked to check on him...

Arthur went into the living room to have another smoke. He deserved a small rest after that trip. Besides, Francis could wait another five minutes.

Arthur inhaled deeply and sank back against the couch cushions. A wistful grin flitted across his lips. It never changed. The smell of his flat. Rather, the smell of his _parents'_ flat. For that's what it was. Their house. _His_ house from childhood. One of the only things they ever gave him, aside from the pawn shop guitar that started his music career. The smell never changed. His mother's cooking. His father's cologne. Sunk deep within the fabric of furnishings and clinging to the wallpaper.

It had been ten years that month since his parents passed. Automobile accident. On the M6, heading up to Blackpool for a weekend. Terrible. Arthur still remembered the phone call and the endless insomniac nights spent on Francis' couch. He stopped driving his own car shortly after. Never had much luck when it came to automobiles...

Ten years, and Arthur had watched the march of progress turn his once working-class town into upscale restaurants, commercial centers, and housing replete with all the amenities of modern living. He kept the flat, realizing its property value and needing a getaway from the hectic pace of London life. The only change he dared undertake was to turn his parents' old room into his own recording studio.

The clock in the hall chimed half past eight. Arthur's cigarette had burnt out. He tossed it into an ash tray and stood. Francis, no doubt, would be worried.

The pub Arthur owned was only a short walk from his flat. It had been his first business venture, before his recording studios, before the production company in London. He bought the pub on a whim, needing a distraction and not really caring if it would prove a success. But it did. And Francis had been there, keeping the bar, since the beginning.

"Arthur! _Mon Dieu!_ Where have you been?"

Francis was on him the moment he walked through the door.

"Train," Arthur grumbled, settling on a stool.

Before he even could ask, Francis was already pulling his favorite lager from the tap.

"I was concerned," Francis said, setting the pint on the bar top and fixing his friend with a hard look.

Arthur shot him an eye-roll that said _I know._

He downed half the pint before asking: "How's it been?"

"How d'you think?" Francis asked, gesturing past the bar.

Arthur spun in his seat.

The pub was crowded. How had he not noticed when he came in? Probably because he was so used to seeing it dead on a Sunday night...

And everyone's attention fixed on the corner where the jukebox stood. But the juke had been pushed off to the side, its space now occupied by a young man on a barstool with a guitar and amp. It seemed Francis had taken it upon himself to book music acts in Arthur's place.

Arthur turned back to Francis just as the singer belted out some lyric from a Billy Joel song.

"You have shit taste when it comes to talent," Arthur quipped. "Though I must say - " he peeked back over his shoulder - "I'm betting you were listening with something other than your ears when you hired him?"

"You're such a snob. So what if I think he's cute?" Francis said with a playful smack to Arthur's hand. "The kid's not that bad. And in case you haven't noticed, this place is near capacity. It's been that way every weekend this month."

"Is that how long you've booked him?"

Francis nodded with a superior look on his face. "And I just might keep him on the roster 'til Christmas."

Arthur rolled his eyes and returned to his beer. The music, no more than a buzzing background echo. He was dully aware of it - and even less so when it stopped and was replaced by a punctuated applause.

What he _was_ aware of, however, was a bright voice behind him saying: "Hey, Francis!"

Arthur groaned into his pint. It was bad enough the kid played Billy Joel, but did he really have to be an American, too?

"Evening, Alfred," Francis returned. "The usual, I presume?"

"Nah," the kid called Alfred said, swinging a leg over the stool beside Arthur. "You got any bourbon back there? Nineteenth Century European Politics is already kickin' my ass this semester, and I'd really rather forget how I did on that last test."

"You know, if you ever needed any - ah, what is the word? - _tutoring_ , I could be of help. I'm a bit of a history buff," Francis smirked.

"Yeah? No kiddin'. I'll keep it in mind."

Arthur snorted at Francis' horrible flirting attempt, and the kid who seemed wholly oblivious. "Is he even old enough to drink?"

Alfred turned his gaze on Arthur as if he were seeing him for the first time. "You wanna see my I.D., old man?"

"He's twenty-two," Francis tutted.

"Well, if he's doing so poorly in school, perhaps he should be studying instead of here," Arthur scoffed.

"Hey! 'He' is sitting right here, man," Alfred said.

Arthur shot Alfred a withering gaze, taking in everything from the tousled hair to the glasses and Harvard t-shirt. _Frat boy_ , Arthur sneered. "Shouldn't you be _across_ the river, chatting up some co-eds with your extensive Beatles knowledge?"

"Nah. I was always a Stones fan, myself," Alfred said smoothly.

"Right. And I suppose you really do go to Harvard and aren't just following some trend?"

"Sure do! Except this semester, of course. Study abroad program."

Arthur knocked back the rest of his pint, irritated he had yet to strike a nerve. He didn't know why, but something about this American was pissing him off - more so than the Austrian.

"You have shitty taste in music," he said snidely, hoping that was the right button to press.

"Bite a guy's head off for playin' some Billy Joel, why don'tcha. Why're you bitching? Got a request?"

"Yes. Why don't you just fuck off."

"Jeez, Francis, who _is_ this guy?"

"I _happen_ to be the owner of this pub, thank you!" Arthur bristled.

Francis smirked as he set Alfred's drink down and refilled Arthur's pint.

"What? Really?" Alfred said, genuinely curious. "How come I haven't seen you before now?"

"I've been in London. On business. Not that it's any of _yours_." Arthur took a swig.

Alfred turned his tumbler thoughtfully on the bar top. The ice clinked against the glass.

"Ice, too?" Arthur sneered. "If you're going to put ice in your whiskey, why don't you go ahead and finish the abomination and add the soda."

"Excuse me. I know it must offend your sensibilities to like my drinks chilled. If you'd ever been to Texas, you'd know why. Can't help it your English blood runs cold."

Arthur ignored the jibe as Alfred sipped his bourbon.

"I don't particularly _like_ Billy Joel," Alfred said after a pause.

"What?"

"I said I don't - "

"I _know_ what you said. I heard you. I only said 'what' as a - a reflex, of sorts. I didn't mean for you to keep talking."

"Oh," Alfred said, a look of hurt flitting across his face. "Well, I - I just thought you should know. Considering this is your place and all...I only play it 'cause, y'know, it's what the crowds like. Music they don't really have to pay attention to. If you want me to play somethin' else, you can let me know."

"Just as long as you don't play any of that arena rock crap, I think I'll be okay."

"What about Steely Dan? Grand Funk Railroad?"

Arthur made a derisive sound.

"Aw, c'mon! 'I'm Your Captain' is a classic! What about Supertramp? They're British..."

"Good God, is that _really_ all you listen to?"

Alfred laughed. "Nah. I'm only messin' with you. Although I just might play 'Captain' for you. If I told you what I really liked, you wouldn't believe me."

"Oh, wouldn't I?" Arthur said drily as he took a sip from his pint.

Alfred chewed his bottom lip, an eager look on his face. His knees bobbed up and down on the stool. He sat perched on its edge, an inch from falling off.

"Okay fine, I'll tell you," Alfred said. "Scandinavian heavy metal." He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he pressed on. "And Kraftwerk is...interesting. But oh my god, there's this one band - they were from, like, the sixties, and...oh my god, if you heard them, I swear they'd change your life! You might know 'em. They were British. Only put out one album, but man, oh man! I swear to god, dude...life changing! They were called HissyFitsKill."

Arthur felt the color drain from his face. He was glad the lights were dimmed.

Behind the bar, Francis made a noise like a strangled cough.

" _Have_ you heard of them?" Alfred pressed.

Arthur sniffed and reached for a cigarette. "'Course I have. That band actually put out two albums, though the sophomore one never made it across the pond. Hardly made a dent over here either, as I recall."

"Seriously? Oh man, I would _kill_ to get my hands on that second album! So, like, you've heard of them, right? I mean, you've heard their stuff? Am I right...totally mind blowing. Their sound was unlike _any_ thing out there at the time. It was punk before punk was punk, y'know? Just think, if they'd've waited like five or seven years, they could have been something huge."

Arthur gave a solemn nod. "Indeed."

"Alfred," Francis said gently, "your break's nearly up."

"What? Oh. Okay, thanks, Francis!" Alfred finished his drink and turned once more to Arthur. "So, before I go, you got any requests?"

Arthur shrugged, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"What about Clapton? You like Clapton?"

"Sure," Arthur murmured. "Just...play anything but 'Layla'. I'm sick of that ruddy song."

"How 'bout 'Crossroads'?"

"Yeah. Okay." Arthur tapped the ash into a tray. "Something bluesy'll do."

Alfred grinned and headed back to his corner, oblivious to the change that had come over Arthur.

.

.

.


	2. Sound of Confusion

_Geography Note: Arthur's pub and flat are in Birkenhead._ _It's across the river Mersey from the University of Liverpool, where Alfred is an exchange student._ _Hamilton Square is a metro station in Birkenhead._

* * *

 ** _"You found heaven on Earth, gonna burn for your sin." ~ Spacemen 3, Walkin' with Jesus_**

* * *

The next morning, Arthur was at the pub early going over paperwork. After over a decade working there, Francis knew how to do more than pull a tap or mix a drink. He kept the pub running and books balanced when Arthur was away, but Arthur still liked to double check, though he never found so much as a comma out of place. Francis caught him at it more than once and teased him every time despite knowing the reason behind it. It had nothing to do with Arthur being a control freak. He really wasn't. He just needed to _feel_ in control, to have something to focus on, in case things started to spiral out for him.

At half past ten, he began getting the pub ready for the lunch crowd when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Not open yet," Arthur called.

The knocker moved over to one of the windows, cupped his hands around his eyes to peer in, and knocked against the glass.

"What the bloody hell - " Arthur grumbled, glancing up. He was met by a grinning Alfred who gave him a small wave.

Arthur shot him a look that said _What do you want?_

"Can I come in?" Alfred said, the glass muting his voice. His breath fogged the window.

Arthur heaved an annoyed sigh and opened the door, eyes squinting against the late morning sun.

"Thanks," Alfred said, stepping in. Arthur briefly registered the fact that Alfred stood a head taller than him. He had not realized it last night, having been sat on a barstool. It only further fanned the flames of his irritation with the brash Yankee.

"To what do I owe this visit?" Arthur deadpanned, shutting the door.

Alfred looked around a moment, as if he were expecting to see someone he knew. When the invisible person failed to present himself, he turned back to Arthur and did a double take.

"Whoa! Dude. Is that...you? The, uh, o-owner, right? You got a name?"

Arthur's brow knit. "What are you on about? 'Course it's me."

"Where's the three piece suit? And is that...eyeliner?"

"So what if it is? This is the eighties. Blokes can wear eyeliner if they choose."

"I never said it was a _bad_ thing. It looks good on y-uh, heh," Alfred let out a nervous laugh and scratched the back of his neck. "I mean, it's just weird, y'know? 'Cause last night I saw you in the suit, and all. And you didn't seem like the type..." Alfred's words drifted off. He seemed to be looking at Arthur as if he had suddenly recognized someone he knew.

The look faded as quickly as it had come, but it left Arthur feeling nervous, as if he were under a microscope.

"Are you going to answer me? Why are you here? I've a pub I need to open soon and - "

"Where's Francis?"

"F-Francis?"

"Yeah. He usually - " Alfred stopped short, his ears starting to redden. He hefted his shoulders up, sticking his hands in his pockets. "W-well, what I mean to say is...he, uh, usually gives me my cut, y'know, for the previous week, so..."

"Ah. Of course." Arthur went behind the bar and took out an envelope. "Here you are, then."

"Thanks." Alfred looked at the envelope, seemingly glad for the distraction. A thick silence fell around them.

Alfred shifted his weight, as if he had something he was desperately holding back.

Arthur folded his arms. "Anything else?"

Alfred started to give his head the slightest of shakes, then seemed to think better of it. He tapped the enveloped against his palm. "...You, um, wouldn't want - wouldn't want to get a bite to eat? Or somethin'? I mean, I haven't had breakfast and I'm _starvin'_ and my afternoon classes don't start 'til two, so..."

Arthur's mouth fell open, a look of incredulity spread across his face. He gestured with his arms at the empty room. "Pub. Opening soon."

"Oh! Right. Right!" Alfred breathed, shaking his head. "Stupid of me. 'M sorry."

"Why are you asking, anyway?"

Alfred glanced up, the ghost of a grin on his lips. Again, that keen look, as if he knew Arthur but couldn't place him. Arthur hunched his shoulders, drawing in on himself and averting Alfred's eyes.

"I guess, seein' as how you're kind of like my boss...I don't know. Thought it'd be nice to, y'know, buy you a meal? I feel like I come across as some dumb jock frat boy and I want you to know I'm...not really like that. It's just...people - back home - expect me to _look_ a certain way or _act_ a certain way, so..." Alfred heaved his shoulders up and down. "So that's that. Wow. I can't believe I said all that!" Another nervous laugh. "I should...probably go. Let you get back to..." He gestured absently. "Okay. Bye, then!"

The moment the door swung shut, Arthur let out a long-held breath and collapsed onto a stool. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, swearing that bloody Yank would do him no good.

He told Francis as much later that evening.

"I want him off the list!" Arthur fumed.

"What? Why?" Francis said, drying a pint glass.

"Why!? Because I'm the owner! You don't need any more reason than that!"

"Arthur, calm down - "

"He's talentless - a hack! Causes me undue stress - "

"He just asked you out for lunch - "

"But you didn't see the _look_ on his face!"

"He can't possibly have known. He was probably just throwing out obscure bands last night-"

Arthur pursed his lips and shot his friend an icy look.

"Oh, uh, that's not what...s-sorry," Francis said, his cheeks flushing. "But you know what I mean. He was just trying to get at you."

"He's going to give me a coronary," Arthur muttered.

"You're going to give your _self_ one if you don't stop with this."

"And then the way he left!" Arthur said, firing up again. "What kind of - I mean, who the hell - can you even believe it!"

"Yes, I can," Francis sighed, exasperated. "You've told me this story twenty times since I've been here and I just walked in the door!"

"Most bloody awkward thing in my life," Arthur said.

"I'm sure _that's_ not true," Francis smirked. "And I think I know what's going on here."

"What?" Arthur said, tapping the ash off his cigarette.

Francis said nothing but continued to grin, a knowing look on his face as he pulled a tap.

"Oh stop it. He's not even my type," Arthur grumbled.

"Arthur, you do this every time."

"No I don't. And I'll have you know, I'll be glad if I never have to hear that voice again."

"Do what every time? Hear who's voice?"

Arthur spun in his seat. Francis let out a laugh which turned into a curse as the glass he filled spilled over.

Alfred sauntered over, taking a seat. "So, your name's 'Arthur,' huh?"

Arthur turned back around, not saying a word.

"So who were you guys talking about?" Alfred asked.

"Oh, just some new artist who's giving Arthur a bit of a headache," Francis said smoothly. "You know how musicians are." He shot Alfred a wink.

"Artist?" Alfred said, arching an eyebrow. He turned to Arthur. "So you own a pub and what? Produce music?"

A terse "Yes."

"Like, a label?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

Arthur huffed through his nose and focused on grinding out his cigarette. "Eroica Records."

"Eroica," Alfred echoed. "Like the Beethoven symphony?"

This earned him a sidelong glance from Arthur, surprised the American had even heard of it.

Alfred grinned. "Told you I was more than a jock frat boy."

"Right," Arthur said. "We produce classical music."

"How did you get into that? Wait, no. Let me guess. You used to play an instrument. Probably some hard to play instrument. Took up a great deal of your time. That explains why you're so uptight. First chair, too, I bet. I know! You were a cellist - "

"Alfred," Francis interjected "Are you hungry? When did you last eat? I can get you a menu if you'd like."

"What? Oh. Food. Yeah. Food would be great, thanks, Francis!"

Arthur took the momentary distraction to slip off the bar stool and head for the door. He mouthed a "Thank you" and waved a good bye to Francis, who nodded in return. By the time Alfred noticed, Arthur was already gone.

Alfred stayed away for the better part of the week after that, though Arthur knew better than to count himself lucky. He knew he couldn't avoid Alfred, nor did he have grounds to ban him from the pub. He and Francis never did come to a decision regarding Alfred's continued performances. Arthur knew he had overreacted. And Francis knew when to keep his mouth shut and let his friend cool off. They formed a silent compromise.

When Sunday came, Arthur took the morning and afternoon shift, while Francis covered the evening, despite having worked the later shift the entire week. But Francis knew Arthur, and knew him well. He knew when to back away and let things resolve on their own. The less contact Arthur had with the Yank, the better.

Unfortunately, Francis did not know Alfred that well.

Alfred burst into the pub the following week, backpack slung over his shoulder and clothes soaking wet from having forgotten his umbrella.

Francis startled when he saw him. He had been leafing through a magazine at the bar. It was a Thursday afternoon and the pub wasn't terribly busy. He shot Alfred a momentary glare, none too happy about having his lounging interrupted.

"Where is he?" Alfred demanded, looking around the pub.

"Who?" Francis asked, returning to his perusing.

"Arthur!" Alfred said, flinging his backpack up on the bar top.

Francis clicked his tongue at the water droplets that were flung off with it. "You're drenched."

Alfred seemed not to notice as he rummaged through his bag.

"What do you need Arthur for?" Francis asked.

"'Cause," Alfred said, pulling a large plastic bag out, "I've got something I want to show him."

"Well, he's not here. Took the day off."

Alfred's face fell. "Oh."

"What have you got?" Francis asked, nodding at the bag.

Alfred's face lit up once again as he took what was inside out.

It was a record.

He flipped it over and jabbed a finger at a black and white picture on the back, the look on his face triumphant. "It's him, isn't it?"

Francis' face blanched.

"It's him. Isn't it?"

Francis pressed his lips into a thin line and gave a tiny nod.

"I knew it!" Alfred whooped, scooping the record up and clutching it to his chest. "God, I fucking _knew_ it! I knew he looked familiar, but it didn't really click until I saw him with the eyeliner...but even then...oh, God! I _knew_ it! And look, see here - " Alfred shoved the album under Francis' nose, finger pointing at a name - "Song credits. Almost all of 'em say A. Kirkland. But he had always just been Iggy, Iggy, Iggy - "

"It was his nickname," Francis said quietly.

"Right! And when I found out Arthur's name was Arthur, and about his record label, and I called and - "

"Wait, wait a minute," Francis said, struggling to keep up. "You - you _called_ his label? Whatever for?"

"I don't know. I...felt kind of stupid, actually. But I just...I _had_ to know. So I called. And asked for Mr. Kirkland, and the secretary said he was out of town."

"Oh, Alfred," Francis sighed.

But Alfred did not hear him. He looked dazedly at his album, holding it as if it were something sacred. "I can't believe I'm playing in Iggy's pub! I can't believe I _talked_ to him, I - "

"Alfred. Listen to me," Francis said, suddenly stern. "You are one of about five people who know that he used to be Iggy, so I would advise you to keep it to yourself."

Alfred's head snapped up. "What? Why? I wanna tell him - "

"Don't. Please. You don't know everything. He's worked hard to keep that part of his life in the past - "

"Why?" Alfred said again. "His band was amazing. I mean, you've heard 'em, right?"

Francis nodded. "Just once. He played for me."

"Well, then..." Alfred's brow knit, his shoulders inching up. "Tell me."

Francis shook his head. "I can't."

"Great. I finally find out all those rumors surrounding my music idol aren't true and I can't..." Alfred's shoulders dropped. He let out an exasperated sound. "This is just like finding out Elvis isn't really dead. Do you have any idea what it's doin' to me?"

"Do you have any idea what it will do to him?"

"No! Because you won't fucking tell me!"

"It isn't my story to tell."

Alfred huffed. "You know what? Fine. Whatever. It's...you say I don't know everything, yet you won't - whatever." He shoved the record back in his bag and zipped it up. He slung it over his shoulder and made for the door.

He heard Francis call his name, but stepped out with nary a backwards glance.

Francis chewed his lip as he watched Alfred go, afraid he had just made things much worse.

.

 **October, 1987**

Every day since Alfred's big reveal to Francis, the Frenchman waited on tenterhooks for something to happen. The other shoe to drop. But it never did. He never told Arthur, of course. Didn't need to be stressing him out anymore than he already was. Poor thing. Had to take a last minute trip back to London at the end of September to deal with what he called " _That_ Austrian." Arthur wasn't due back in London until the end of October, so he decided to extend his impromptu trip and finish up whatever work he could so he (hopefully) wouldn't need to go back for at least another month. He and Francis never got around to scheduling auditions for October, so Francis kept the same line-up, with only one small change. He bumped Alfred up to playing Saturday nights in additi on to his Tuesday and Sunday performances. The kid really could draw a crowd.

As the weeks wore on, Francis started to think Alfred may have actually taken what he'd said to heart. The kid hardly mentioned Arthur, except to casually wonder how his trip was going. Hell, he seemed downright bashful whenever Arthur was around and was practically stumbling over his words, wishing Arthur a safe trip. But given Alfred's obsession with HissyFitsKill, it wasn't that surprising.

When Arthur returned in mid October, he looked surlier than ever.

"How did it go?" Francis asked tentatively.

"Waste of my bloody time. _That's_ how it went," Arthur snipped, pulling a tap. It was a Saturday night and he had been helping Francis fill drink orders at the bar. It wasn't terribly busy for a Saturday - Arthur suspected the on and off downpours were keeping people away - but he needed a distraction. It relaxed him, in a way, to be working with his hands and not behind a desk with a phone glued to his ear. He swore the pub was like his therapy sometimes.

"That Austrian insisted we meet, face to face, only to tell me he would not be signing with the label, that he'd been offered a better deal through a friend of his cousin's in Munich or some such bollocks. He could have saved me the trip and just phoned."

"Probably for the best, though."

"Hm. Maybe. I can't deny I'm rather glad to be shot of him, but..."

"Sometimes the money is just not worth it."

Arthur snorted. "That Austrian turned out to be the easiest part of the trip. I spent the rest of my time chasing leads to nowhere."

"Oh, something's bound to turn up. You can be so negative sometimes," Francis teased, giving Arthur's hand a playful smack.

Arthur smiled in spite of himself. Sometimes he wondered how Francis could be so laissez-faire, and was about to say so, when something caught his attention.

He and Francis had been so busy talking, neither one of them had been paying much mind to anything else, except for the occasional order. Now, he wished he had been listening to more than just his own voice.

It was the music.

Those lyrics.

That song.

The rhythm had been changed to better fit being played on an acoustic guitar, but he still recognized it.

Arthur's eyes drifted over to where Alfred sat, playing in the corner. A stricken look spread across his face.

Francis was about to ask what was the matter, when he heard it too.

When the song ended, the pub erupted in applause. "Encore!" someone called. Alfred grinned and began to play again.

Arthur spun around, his voice low and deadly. "How could you?"

Francis felt himself shrink under Arthur's glare.

"I told you I wanted him gone, and now he's playing - "

"Arthur - "

" - _my_ song!"

"I...I didn't know he would," Francis said weakly. "H-he never said - he's only ever played popular stuff."

Arthur lit a cigarette.

"I can't tell him what to play," Francis said, suddenly defensive. "Besides, he adores your band. He adores _you_. Is that really so bad?"

Arthur worked his jaw. Something in what Francis said hit him like a punch to the face. "Does he know?"

Francis winced, realizing his mistake.

Arthur blew out a long stream of smoke. "Right. I'm going for a walk." He tossed the half smoked cigarette in an ashtray and grabbed his umbrella.

"He _guessed_ , Arthur!" Francis hissed, blocking Arthur's exit. "He guessed."

"But _you_ confirmed it."

"Don't do this," Francis pleaded.

Arthur spared one last glance at Francis before shouldering past his friend and heading for the door.

" _Merde_ _,_ " Francis cursed, hanging his head. His eyes fell Arthur's cigarette, still burning in the tray. He picked it up and inhaled.

"Didn't know you smoked," a familiar voice said.

Francis glanced up. Alfred was sauntering over.

"I don't," Francis said, averting Alfred's gaze.

"Hey..." Alfred said, seeing the heaviness in the Frenchman's eyes. "What's wrong?"

"That was one hell of a stunt you pulled," Francis said, an edge to his voice.

Alfred's face lit up.

"I'm not saying it was a good thing.

Alfred's face fell. "Where's Arthur?"

"He left." Francis ground out the cigarette.

"...W-why?"

"Why do you think? What did I tell you, hm? Did you suddenly forget?"

Alfred looked at his feet, muttering something about wanting it to be a surprise.

"It most certainly was that," Francis conceded. He fixed Alfred a whiskey and poured one for himself too.

"I didn't ask - "

"On the house," Francis said.

"Did he at least hear the applause? I mean, that was _his_ song. That was all for him."

Francis nodded. "But he doesn't see it that way."

Before Alfred could ask what he meant, someone clapped him heartily on the back. Alfred turned around to see one of the pub goers standing over him. "I just wanted to say, kid, that last song you played...that was really somethin'. You write that?"

Alfred glanced at Francis, who gave his head the slightest of nods.

"Uh, y-yeah," Alfred said. "Yeah I did."

"Well, good show. Hope to hear more next time." The man pressed a ten pound note into his hand before weaving his way to the door.

Alfred looked helplessly at the money in his hand. He glanced out the window. The rain had stopped.

"I, um, think I'm gonna head out, Francis," Alfred said in a hollow voice. "Will you tell him? Please? Tell him I'm...I'm sorry."

Francis nodded.

As Alfred stepped out, the rain started in earnest. He sighed, tilting his head back. Over two months in England and he still forgot to bring an umbrella along. Well. The rain matched his mood, anyway. He began trudging up the street. A car sped by, turning the corner fast and sending a sheet of water arcing up to splash all over him.

"Aw, come _on!"_ Alfred fumed. He stomped his foot on the wet sidewalk, the water splashing up and into his shoe, adding insult to injury.

Alfred folded his arms over his chest, hunching against the damp night. He debated whether or not to continue or just head back to the pub and see if Francis had anything dry he could wear, when he saw a figure approaching. The glowing ember from a cigarette lit up the man's face.

Arthur stopped short when he saw Alfred, taking in his sodden appearance.

"Yeah, go ahead and gloat," Alfred shouted over the downpour. "The stupid American forgot his umbrella again."

"I wasn't going to say anything. You look wretched enough."

Alfred snorted. "That's a sh-shock," he said, teeth starting to chatter in the chilly air. "You, w-with nothing to s-say."

"You really ought to get out of this weather."

"No sh-shit. And I've g-got a bit of a hike to H-Hamilton Square, so..." Alfred started back up the street, past Arthur.

Arthur frowned. "Alfred," he called.

"What?"

Arthur hesitated. Every sense he had screamed at him this was a bad idea, but...he was still human and no matter what he or other people may have thought, he _did_ have a heart. He couldn't just let the kid walk off like that.

"My flat's not far," Arthur called out over the rain. "You could...have a bath and let your clothes dry."

Alfred peered over his shoulder. "...S-serious?"

Arthur drew level with him and nodded. "Serious." He led Alfred two blocks up and hung a right at the corner. His flat was the third one down.

Arthur ushered Alfred in. He stood just inside the door, dripping all over the linoleum wearing an apologetic look.

"Be back in a moment," Arthur said.

He returned with a towel and, once Alfred was sufficiently dry, showed the American to the upstairs bathroom. He ran the bath and went into the room next door. Alfred could hear him rummaging through drawers.

Arthur came back with some clothes and a fresh towel. "I'm not sure these will fit, but - "

"They'll do," Alfred said, taking them.

"Right. Just leave your stuff outside the door. I'll put it in the laundry. Make sure the pockets are empty."

"Thanks, mom," Alfred said, flashing a toothy grin.

Arthur rolled his eyes and left Alfred to it.

After his bath was finished and he had dressed, Alfred went downstairs. He could hear the low hum of the dryer, but Arthur was no where to be found.

Alfred went in to the kitchen and over to the sink. He ran his glasses under the tap to clean off the water spots from the rain and dried them on his shirt.

Arthur rounded the corner from the living room, sorting through a stack of envelopes. He gave a small yelp of surprise when he saw Alfred.

The American chuckled.

"Well," Arthur said, trying to recover. "All settled then?"

"Yeah. Thanks," Alfred said, gesturing at the borrowed clothes.

Arthur had lent him a t-shirt and pajama pants. The shirt fit snugly, showing off every contour, and the pants would have been perfect for a flood. They only came to just above Alfred's ankles. Arthur tried to focus on their ridiculous length to keep from staring at how nicely the shirt fit.

"Y-yeah, no problem." Arthur suddenly found his throat had gone dry. "...Would you like, uh, something to drink? Some tea, or..."

"Oh, uh, sure! I don't suppose you have any coffee by chance?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Arthur said with a small smirk. He set the envelopes on the breakfast table and began looking through the pantry. "It's instant, though. Is that a problem?"

"Uh, yeah, on second thought...I'll take the tea," Alfred said, seating himself at the table.

"Probably just as well," Arthur said, examining the can of instant coffee. "I have no idea how long I've had this. Does coffee go bad?"

Alfred laughed. "Why do you even have it, then?"

Arthur scratched his head and chortled in return. "I think I was trying to make a tiramisu. God, that must have been _years_ ago. Anyway, it turned out...or rather it _didn't_ , and I - I don't know - kept the coffee for a second attempt?" Arthur put the can away. "So. Tea, then?"

"Yes, please. As long as it's anything but Earl Grey. That stuff makes me gag."

Arthur set the kettle and readied the cups. He only had tea bags but doubted the American would mind. He joined Alfred at the table, waiting for the water to heat.

"You know where has the best coffee?" Alfred said.

"Hmm?"

"Seattle."

Arthur lifted a brow. "You're a connoisseur, are you?"

"I wouldn't say that. It's just...everywhere I've been...Seattle's is the best."

Arthur smirked. "Everywhere you've been? You sound so well travelled," he deadpanned.

He and Alfred shared a laugh.

Then the grin slid away from Alfred's face. He shrugged and said: "Comes with the territory, I guess. Being the son of a career politician. I've been all over."

"Really?" Arthur said, as the kettle whistled. The water was ready. Arthur rose and poured the cups then brought them to the table.

Alfred nodded and thanked Arthur for the tea. He pretended to be occupied by turning his cup on the table before resuming the conversation. "Horse-back riding in Montana. Vacations in Puget Sound and skiing the Italian Alps. Boarding school in Connecticut, where I flunked my first year, by the way. Caught hell for that one, oh man!" He laughed timidly. "...But not half as bad as when I almost got expelled."

"You're joking."

Alfred's eyes flicked up, locking for a moment on Arthur's. The grin was back, but it was different somehow. Sadder, almost. He shook his head, eyes drifting back down to the contents of his cup, and let out a bitter puff of a laugh. "...Me and this one guy, uh...we got caught..."

Alfred's eyes flicked back up then down. Arthur sipped his tea.

"We were...s-sort of...involved." Alfred's brow knit as he said it. He gave his head a slight shake and sniffed. "And then the headmaster found out and our parents were called and...h-he got sent away to some military academy in Virginia but not before his dad gave him a hell of a shiner in the headmaster's office. Well. That's what happens when you kiss a Four-Star General's son." Alfred laughed, ugly and self-deprecating. " _My_ father made me stay. Thought it was a better punishment for me to live through the humiliation." Alfred sniffed again, raking a hand through his hair. He picked up his teacup and drained it all in one go.

"So," Alfred said, trying to smile. His eyes shone over-bright. "That was my tale of woe. What's yours?"

Arthur finished his tea, setting the cup down primly on the table. "Perhaps some other time," he said, not unkindly. "That was...a lot to digest."

" 'M sorry. I didn't mean to just... _dump_ all that on you."

"Well. I could certainly go for something stronger to drink. Beer?"

"Sure."

Arthur grabbed two bottles and popped the tops. He and Alfred went into the living room and sank onto the couch. They sat in silence, drinking.

"Hey, um, a-about earlier," Alfred said after a few minutes, "at the pub. I just want to say I'm...well, I'm sorry. I should have talked to you first, but I was afraid you would just, like, shut me out completely."

Arthur said nothing. He finished his beer and lit a cigarette.

"They loved your song," Alfred said, quietly. He could see Arthur's jaw reflexively clench, the look on the Englishman's face distant. "And I meant what I said, about your music changing my life, for pretty much everything I just said." Alfred let out a nervous laugh. "I found your record right after...that...happened. And it...helped. It really did. It was just so...raw, and unapologetic."

Arthur put on his best face for Alfred's sake. He suddenly felt he was seventeen again and being interviewed for his first magazine article. "That...really means a lot. 'Specially to a selfish old tosser like me." Arthur forced a grin. _Though it will never help atone for what I did,_ he thought.

The dryer buzzed, signaling the end of its cycle _,_ just as the roar of rain pounded against the roof.

"Seems like the weather's against us," Arthur said, stubbing out his cigarette, thankful for a change of topic.

"Hmm."

"I'd offer you a lift, but seeing as how I don't have a car..."

"Yeah..."

"Another round while we wait?"

"Okay."

Arthur returned with two more beers. They drank again in silence until the phone in the hall rang a few minutes later. Arthur cursed under his breath, checking his watch and wondering who would be calling at eleven o'clock at night.

It was Francis.

In the living room, Alfred tried not to listen in too much, but the flat wasn't terribly big and the walls weren't terribly thick. He caught bits of phrases like "I'm okay," "At home," and "Yes, I'm sure." He decided to check on the weather and went over to the window.

"It's still coming down," Arthur said, making Alfred jump.

"Yeah," Alfred said, recovering and rubbing the back of his neck. "It's pretty relentless." He turned back to the window, watching the rain with an apprehensive face. He stifled a yawn.

"...You're, um, more than welcome to stay here - "

"Oh! I don't want to impose - "

"Nonsense. It's either that or you get soaked all over again."

"I could just phone a cab."

"You'd still be waiting 'til morning," Arthur snorted. "They're not like the ones in London. And if you do get one to come out, he'll charge you double, if not triple. And don't even try Francis. He's already a bottle of wine in."

"You're only saying that because it would be rude not to."

"Believe me," Arthur began, "I am in no way feeling obligated to do anything. We've both had a hell of a night. There's no need to make it any worse."

Alfred blinked and smiled. "O-okay. Sure. I mean, if you're cool with it...why not?"

He shuffled back to the couch. Arthur joined him, turning on the television. They caught a replay of a match from earlier, with Arthur getting them a final beer at half-time.

"I just realized something," Alfred said, popping off the top.

"What's that?" Arthur said, taking a lazy drag off a cigarette. He and Alfred both sat slouched on the sofa, pressed down by the weight of exhaustion and alcohol, their knees almost knocking together.

"I'm sleeping in your house. I'm drinking a beer, with _you!_ Dude. If I died now, I would be so fuckin' happy!"

"Control yourself," Arthur said, eyes focused on the match.

Alfred laughed and finished his beer. "I'm trying."

"And please don't go dying on me. I'd have a hell of a job keeping that mess out of the papers."

"Mmkay. I won't," Alfred said, taking off his glasses and tossing them on the coffee table. He tucked his legs up and leaned his head back against the cushions. His eyes slipped closed and he drifted off to sleep in moments.

Arthur finished watching the match, hardly aware of how close Alfred slept. It was only when he reached for the remote, shifting the cushions, did he realize. Alfred's head lolled onto his shoulder, the sudden weight making Arthur start in surprise. He cursed to himself as he switched off the T.V., wondering if he could move his shoulder without waking Alfred. He shifted it just as Alfred moaned in his sleep.

Arthur tensed, watching the young man sleeping on him. Alfred's brow knit. His head gave a small twitch as he made another sleep-filled sound.

Arthur wondered what he dreamt about. He remembered everything that had transpired that night, everything they had discussed...

Alfred eventually seemed to settle, the lines on his face relaxing. Whatever dream he'd been having had left him or changed to a different one.

He didn't know why, but this made Arthur smile.

And then it struck him: Alfred trusted him.

Everything that had happened, everything Alfred told him...

It was singularly the scariest, yet most comforting, feeling Arthur had ever felt. To know someone trusted him so wholly, so implicitly, when he hardly dared trust himself. It was a feeling he never thought he'd be worthy of again...

A lock of hair fell across Alfred's eyes. Arthur reached a tentative hand up and brushed it back, the tips of his fingers ghosting against Alfred's skin.

He rested his head against the sofa and gave himself over to sleep.

.

.

.


	3. How Soon is Now?

**_A/N:_** _Items of note in this chapter: "stardust" is a slang term for cocaine, references to 'A Clockwork Orange,' and dat angst!_ _(But, IMHO, I don't think it really hits full force until chapter 4. So...consider yourself warned ;) )._ _I'm cross posting the chapters there (spoiler?alert: there may be an alternate ending that I will post on Tumblr._ _I haven't decided yet) as well as playlists for each chapter._ _Many of the songs are ones mentioned in the story or the quotes at the beginning of each chapter, and the rest are sort of like my own personal playlist that I listen to when writing this...I'm telling you now, there will be a lot of Jimmy Eat World, so prepare yourself for feels._ _So many feels...Anyway, shameless plugging is shameless._ _Thank you guys for reading/favoriting/reviewing!_ _You rock my world!_

* * *

 ** _"How can you say I go about things the wrong way?_ _I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does._ _See I've already waited too long, and all my hope is gone." ~ The Smiths, How Soon Is Now?_**

* * *

It was the snap of his neck muscles catching that woke him.

Arthur's head jerked, his eyes popping open. For a moment he wondered why everything looked sideways. He blinked his eyes twice, trying to bring them into focus. Coffee table. Television. Picture frames. Wall. His flat. He was in his flat. And his head was...crooked. No. That wasn't right. His neck. Bent. He tried to move it all at once. That was the wrong answer. He winced at the sharp pain.

There was something soft under his cheek. He shifted his head bit by bit to see what it was.

Alfred's hair.

Something warm under his hand.

Alfred's hand.

Arthur pulled his away, his heart starting to pound. Memories from last night rushed back. Wet clothes and tea and Alfred's face. A football match and beer and Alfred falling asleep on his shoulder. At some point he must have fallen asleep with his head against Alfred's, must have taken Alfred's hand...

He couldn't remember.

And he didn't like not remembering...

Beside him, Alfred began to wake.

Arthur watched the blonde stir from the corner of his eye, pretending he was waking too.

He felt Alfred trying to angle his head. He lifted his own head, setting the world right side up, and clenching his jaw against his protesting neck muscles.

Alfred blinked blearily up and grinned. "...Hey."

Arthur managed a small smile in return. He had just noticed Alfred's eyes. They were the clearest blue he had ever seen...

"You okay?" Alfred asked, his words still heavy with sleep.

"I'm fine," Arthur said. "Why?"

"Staring," Alfred snickered.

Arthur blinked and looked away. He pushed himself up and immediately wished he hadn't. Stinging pain radiated down the back of his neck to his shoulders.

"Ah, fuck!" Arthur groaned, rubbing the muscle.

Alfred sat up. "Are you okay?" he asked again with an edge of concern.

"Fine," Arthur said stubbornly. "I...slept wrong is all." He stood and shuffled into the kitchen, shoulders bunched up.

Alfred snatched his glasses off the coffee table and followed. "You got a hot water bottle or heating pad by chance?"

"No," Arthur huffed as he gathered up the teacups and kettle from last night.

"Eh, no matter," Alfred said to himself. He grabbed a hand towel and threw it in the microwave to heat up.

"What on earth are you - "

"Sit," Alfred commanded as the microwave beeped.

When Arthur refused to move, Alfred took the cups from his hand, placed them in the sink, and steered the stubborn Englishman over to the breakfast table, plonking him in a chair.

"Alfred, what -?" Arthur demanded moments before Alfred wrapped the warmed towel around his neck.

"Bloody hell," Arthur sighed. His shoulders drooped in relief, the tense muscles starting to unwind.

"What am I gonna do with you, old man?" Alfred grinned as he rubbed small circles on Arthur's neck.

Arthur mumbled something, his words rendered unintelligible as the pure bliss of relaxation took over. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth from the towel spread all the way down to his fingertips.

"What was that?" Alfred asked.

"I said I'm thirty-eight! I'm not old."

Alfred stopped his ministrations. "Did you just...quote Monty Python?"

"Hardly," Arthur said. "I believe the line is 'I'm thirty- _seven_. I'm not old.'"

Alfred chortled. "So you're a music snob _and_ a movie buff, too, huh?"

"Not really. I just...had a lot of free time. Back then." A quelling acerbity colored Arthur's words. He immediately regretted saying it in the thick silence that followed.

Alfred continued to ply Arthur's stiff neck until all the warmth had left the towel. "There," he said when he'd done. "Hope that helped."

"Tremendously," Arthur said, stretching his neck this way and that.

"Good." Alfred folded the hand towel and placed it on the counter. "I should probably, um, get out of your hair, huh?"

Arthur shrugged, turning around. "We could always..." Alfred's back was to him. He seemed to be taking an inordinately long time folding that hand towel. Arthur swallowed. "Breakfast?" he finished lamely.

Alfred shook his head. "Nah. I've got...y'know - stuff - I need to do," he said over his shoulder. "Mid-terms. This week. A-and...I'm sure you do too. Have stuff, I mean."

"Are you sure?"

Alfred nodded. And finally turned around. Though he couldn't seem to meet Arthur's eyes. He looked down at his clothes. Arthur's clothes.

"Guess I should get changed."

Arthur got to his feet and went to retrieve Alfred's hoodie, shirt, and jeans from the dryer.

"You could just keep the shirt, you know. Probably stretched it too big for me." He meant it as a joke, but the caustic edge from earlier had not left his voice.

"Sorry," Alfred murmured, taking his own clothes and shuffling to the bathroom to change.

Arthur sank against the wall. What the hell was wrong with him? He was sabotaging himself and he knew it. Knew it and couldn't _stop_ it. That was the worst part. It was like he was running on autopilot, like it had been hard-wired into him. _You do this every time_ , Francis had said. And he was right. Back then, when he was seventeen, eighteen, nineteen - back when he _was_ Iggy - he was all too content to have the cliche rockstar one night stand. Fuck 'em and leave 'em. They only ever wanted Iggy, anyway. They didn't want Arthur. But as he got older, and some of his relationships started to get serious, he shut the person out. Protecting Arthur by sacrificing Iggy. Arthur couldn't deal with the hurt. And Iggy was often too high to notice. It was what he had been doing for so long. But now...what could he do? They all wanted Iggy in the end. And this kid was no different...

Arthur pushed himself off the wall and folded his arms across his chest, his thoughts giving him a sour look, just as Alfred rounded the corner.

Alfred stopped short when he saw the Englishman. "...Well, th-thanks again for..." He held Arthur's shirt and pajama pants at arm's length.

"Sure," Arthur said in a hollow voice. He took the clothes. They still felt warm.

"Um, so...I guess I'll see you tonight? A-at the pub, I mean."

"Of course."

"No more surprises. I promise," Alfred said with a thin smile.

He was at the door, his hand turning the nob. Arthur's mind screamed at him to say _some_ thing, but all he managed was: "Right."

Alfred inhaled deeply, drawing himself up, and gave a curt nod.

The door opened.

Cold autumn air smacked Arthur in the face.

The door was closing.

Alfred was leaving.

And he -

"Alfred! You don't have to - "

\- was too late.

Arthur fell against the door, wrenching it open, but Alfred had already turned the corner.

He shut the door, leaning against it and trying to steady his breathing. His pulse pounded in his neck. It could not pound in his chest, for surely a gaping hole had opened up beneath his ribcage. A vacuum. He felt it, sucking everything inward.

He heaved a breath and screamed.

Screamed so loud he knew the neighbors would hear. He bunched up the shirt and pants and screamed into them instead. The shirt, still warm, still smelling like _him._

.

Of all the fashion accessories available in the twentieth century, Arthur was probably most thankful for tinted lenses.

He put on a pair shaded violet before heading out that afternoon. He knew he was asking for trouble - Francis was bound to be on him anyway after last night - but he hoped maybe it would be too busy for him to get a word in.

Fortune, it seemed, was not on his side that day.

The pub was empty.

Even for three o'clock on a Sunday, there should be at least a dockworker or two hanging around, Arthur thought. But there was no one.

Arthur kept his head down as Francis came out with a crate of washed glasses from the kitchen.

It didn't work. Francis' keen eyes spotted the violet glasses in minutes.

"Trying for some new fashion statement?" He smirked, setting the crate down. "Hoping to bring back the swingin' sixties?"

"...No, I...I have a headache," Arthur said, all too aware of how thick his voice sounded.

"Tell me another one, Pinocchio."

" 'S true," Arthur sniffed. He went around the bar and started counting out the cash register.

"Arthur. Look at me."

No answer.

"Look. At. Me."

"Can't you see I'm busy?"

Francis started to approach. "Arthur..."

"Blast it! You messed up my count!"

In moments, Francis was on him, making a swipe for his glasses. Arthur dodged the first lunge, but trying to hold onto a fistful of cash while ducking a Frenchman who, quite honestly, had extremely skilled hands, was too much. Francis succeeded in his second attempt.

Arthur threw the money back in the register and slammed the drawer closed. He lit a cigarette, giving the bar top a petulant glare.

Francis twirled the violet glasses around his finger. "Arthur, what is going on? If this is about last night - "

"It's not."

Francis winced at the forcefulness in Arthur's voice but pressed on undeterred. "You know it's okay to tell me, right? We've been through this before." Francis placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder. He angled his head, trying to get a better look at his friend's face. Arthur's eyes were ringed with red and bloodshot. His complexion, blotchy.

Arthur turned his head away, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"If you've had a relapse - "

Arthur threw his head back and let out a sharp bark of a laugh.

"No," he sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "No. This isn't about drugs, Francis. I've been...look, I've been crying, all right? Shocking, I know."

Arthur took a last drag and stubbed his cigarette out in a tray. "I'm afraid I've r-rather...mucked things up a bit." A pained look spread across his face. He squeezed his eyes shut as two hot tears rolled down each cheek.

Arthur hid his face with his hand, his shoulders trembling as he silently sobbed.

Francis put an arm around him, rubbing small circles on his back. He sat Arthur down and got him to tell him all about it once the Englishman quieted down.

"...He's just so young, Francis," Arthur said, after having told all of what transpired that morning and the night before. "I don't know. I didn't think about it at all until I said it out loud. My age."

"There's not _that_ much of a diff-"

"Sixteen years," Arthur said with a dry look.

"Ah. Well. When you put it that way..."

"It all comes down to the same thing," Arthur huffed, raking a hand through his hair. "He's just another fan."

"Oh, now I don't think _that's_ true," Francis said.

Arthur shot him an incredulous look.

"If he were just another groupie, he would be here right now, hanging off your arm and you would be sitting there with a shit-eating grin. And don't tell me I'm wrong. I've seen how you look when you tell your stories. I've seen your old press photos," Francis said, firing up over Arthur's stubbornness. "Give the kid some credit. He's different. And you know it. Sure, he likes your music, but he likes _you_ more."

"Right. Me, and my _winning_ personality." Arthur pressed his lips into a thin line and lit a cigarette. "He likes Iggy. He as good as said it last night."

"No. He doesn't," Francis said, exasperated. "He doesn't _know_ Iggy. He knows Arthur."

Arthur blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.

"You need to make it up to him. To at least apologize. Even if nothing comes of it, you'll feel better," Francis said.

Arthur said nothing.

Francis glanced at his watch. It was half past four. The pub had been empty for the entire duration of their conversation.

"Do you need me to stay?" he asked.

Arthur shook his head. "No. I'll be fine."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

Francis handed back the violet tinted glasses. Arthur slipped them on and finished his smoke.

The pub remained empty until almost six. Arthur spent the time doing some light cleaning and bookkeeping. Anything, really, to keep his mind occupied until the first few patrons started rolling in. A light flow of customers kept up all evening, and in between serving drinks and food, Arthur passed the time by reading the newspaper or smoking.

At eight o'clock, Alfred arrived.

He set up his guitar and microphone in the corner without a word to Arthur.

Arthur, for his part, pretended to be busy reading the paper, though every so often, his eyes would drift over. Sometimes he swore he glimpsed Alfred watching him too.

One good thing about the slow night, Arthur grudgingly admitted, was that it finally allowed him to hear Alfred sing. And the kid really wasn't as bad as Arthur liked to think.

Alfred's chosen line up that night was heavily progressive-rock influenced. Mostly songs from the Moody Blues and Rush. Arthur couldn't help but wonder whether the choice was deliberate, especially when Alfred belted out "Go Now" and "Freewill."

Once Alfred's set ended, he packed up and left. Kid hadn't even bothered to take his fifteen minute break.

Arthur watched him go from over the top of his newspaper. He wondered about what Francis had said, about how he could apologize, when an idea struck him. An olive branch, of sorts, that he could offer...

Arthur closed the pub early that night and went home. He had something he needed to find.

.

Tuesday night was as slow as Sunday, though Arthur didn't mind. He was looking forward to the end of the night, anyway, when he could surprise Alfred with...

Arthur's happy train of thought suddenly de-railed.

Oh.

But...

 _How_ could he possibly surprise Alfred when they hadn't even spoken in days?

What if Alfred left again without a word? What if he just stopped playing? What if he just stopped coming to the pub? What if he never dared cross the river again? What if...?

Arthur's mind was in a panic mode. He thought of the package, waiting on the shelf under the bar. How would he get it to Alfred if he never saw him again? He supposed he could just leave it with Francis to deliver. All that really mattered was for Alfred to get it, right?

So disjointed were Arthur's thoughts, he didn't even notice the music had stopped, or the person sitting down right in front of him, until that person spoke.

"C-can I have a pint of your darkest?"

Arthur's eyes snapped up and onto a nervously grinning Alfred. "...You want...what?"

"Um, a pint - "

"Oh! Right. Right!" Arthur said. He was so flustered, he poured the beer with too much head. "Ah, sorry 'bout that."

"It's okay," Alfred said quickly. And, as if to prove his point, drank down nearly half.

"You, uh, have a bit of a - " Arthur gestured to his upper lip.

A mortified look spread across Alfred's face. He grabbed a napkin and wiped off the foamy mustache, ears glowing red.

Arthur tried to hide his smile.

Once Alfred had collected himself, and his beer had settled, he took another sip and asked tentatively: "So. Anything new?"

Arthur shrugged and shook his head.

Alfred nodded, resting his cheek in his hand and tracing a pattern on the bar top.

Arthur served a few more customers, keeping an eye on Alfred all the while. He needed to say something more, he knew. But for once, his tongue and his wit failed him. The minutes ticked away.

Alfred returned to the corner to play the second half of his set. Many of the songs were the same ones from Sunday night.

Alfred played until the pub emptied, then sat at the bar, nursing a beer. Arthur locked the door an hour later and began cleaning up. Alfred had not left his seat. Arthur let him stay. He hadn't the heart nor the courage to ask him to leave while he closed up.

Alfred slid off his stool and began helping straighten chairs without a word.

Arthur didn't mind. In fact, it was probably better this way. The pub, empty, save for the two of them. The thought of the package under the bar, of the various ways his apology could go, played in his mind...

"Hey, look," Alfred suddenly said, "I just wanted to say that - I know I get on your nerves, or whatever, a-and I'm sorry - "

"What? No. No, Alfred. You don't. Really - "

Alfred puffed out a deprecating breath. "God, will you just - stop being so polite and let me frickin' apologize! That's the thing with you. You're either too considerate or giving me the cold shoulder. It's like you...try to set me down gently, and when that doesn't work, you turn into an asshole. Well! Which is it?"

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. He folded his arms, giving the floor a thorough study. This was not going at all how he envisioned.

"It's nothing to do with you. It's just... _me_."

"Bullshit. There's more to you than that."

And before Arthur could think of anything to say, before he even knew what was going on, Alfred was standing before him, hands cupped around Arthur's face, bringing their lips together.

The kiss stunned Arthur only for a moment. It did not take long for him to be carried away by it, or to realize it was something he had been craving. He instinctively placed his hands on Alfred's shoulders, pulling himself closer. His eyes slid shut. This was familiar. Something he had done before. He easily slipped back into the rhythm. Alfred was no different...

 _He's just so young..._

His own words screamed back at him.

Arthur's eyes shot open. His fingertips dug into Alfred's shoulders as he pulled away.

"I-I'm sorry - " Alfred began.

"No. No," Arthur breathed. "Don't ever apologize to me again. You shouldn't be sorry. You should not be sorry, Alfred. _I_ should - I should be the one - "

Alfred's brow knit. "Why? What...what's going on? Are you all right?"

"Fine." Arthur's voice shook. "I'm...fine." He sank into a chair. "Only it's...Alfred, I'm thirty- _eight._ I-I shouldn't be...I mean, I shouldn't - "

"That doesn't matter to me," Alfred said, taking Arthur's hand as he sat.

Arthur shook his head, fighting the burning behind his eyes. "How can it not? It's all I've been thinking about."

"It doesn't bother me. When I look at you, I don't see your age. I see _you._ Or, at least, the bits and pieces you've allowed me to see. And I want more. To know more. About you."

Arthur sat, turning Alfred's words over in his head. This was the part he had been dreading. The wanting something more. There were parts of his life he did not like. Parts he wished he could just erase but were bound to be revealed sooner or later. But Alfred had already shown his trust in Arthur. Still, he wondered whether or not it would continue, once the kid found out. Arthur had only ever entrusted the blackest bits of his past to one person: Francis. His best, most loyal friend. What would happen when he turned those things over to a lover, especially one as young as Alfred? What would happen, if things turned sour between them? Sycophantic groupies, he could handle. They only cared about being seen with a rockstar and getting laid. Superficial image. Superficial affection.

Though maybe that was the key.

Keeping Alfred like a groupie, like arm candy...

"I, um, have something for you," Arthur said, all too aware of the old trap he was setting for himself.

Alfred's brow knit. "What?"

Arthur smirked and went around to the bar. The stinging in his eyes abated. The hole in his chest had stopped imploding. He could do this.

Arthur returned with a flat, square something wrapped in layers of tissue paper.

"Well, go on, then," he said, handing it to Alfred.

With a dubious look, Alfred began unwrapping it. His mouth fell open as he peeled away the final layer. "...I-is this...?"

"The second album," Arthur grinned. "First pressing. The one my label gave me."

"Holy shit!" Alfred breathed. "Can we listen to it?"

"Don't be daft," Arthur said, lighting a cigarette. "I don't listen to my own records. That's just weird."

Alfred's face seemed to fall a fraction. He looked down at the album. "'Horrorshow Queen?'" he said, reading off the title.

Arthur scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. I was reading a lot of Anthony Burgess at the time, trying to look smart." He flashed an affected bashful grin.

"Oh yeah. 'A Clockwork Orange,' right? I only ever saw the film. Never read the book. The movie was weird enough."

"The book was just as weird, trust me. Felt like I needed a degree in linguistics just to read it. He used all these abbreviated and Anglicized Russian words. Like, 'horrorshow' was a play on the Russian word for 'good.'"

Alfred nodded. Then a a thought struck him. "Hey, you don't have any other HissyFits' paraphernalia just lying around that you'd be glad to get rid of, do you?"

Arthur felt himself smirk. Like a groupie. This was all too easy.

"Yes. It's all hidden. Locked away in my flat."

"Really?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Except for my guitar. And don't even think to ask to touch it, let alone see it," Arthur said, pointing his cigarette accusatorially at Alfred.

Alfred bit his lip and laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it. Guitars are sacred. And speaking of which, I need to get mine packed up and get goin'. Exam first thing tomorrow morning. And thanks. For this." He held up the record and leaned in for another kiss.

Arthur returned it, wincing on the inside for how forced it felt. In that moment, he never hated himself more.

.

Friday arrived, the air growing crisper each day as late autumn approached. Francis shivered and buttoned his coat. It was days like this that made him miss home - cool and breezy with fat white clouds scudding across the brilliant blue sky. The kind of fresh autumn day that felt like he could see for miles and miles. He walked through Hamilton Square, the wind swirling leaves about his feet. He liked walking through the park whenever he started to miss home. He liked the little square, surrounded by its Georgian houses. It felt familiar. Sometimes he wondered whether or not he should just go back to France. But then he thought about Arthur and what he would do, and the _need_ to stay always overcame the _want_ to leave.

Francis sighed, sweeping the hair out of his face as he drew level with the pub. He could hear the dull din of conversation before he even opened the door. The typical late afternoon after work crowd had already gathered. As he was taking off his coat, a raucous laugh carried above the hum of conversation. Francis' head snapped up and over to the bar. He shouldn't have been at all surprised to see Alfred there, but for once the American was not the loudest thing in the room. Arthur was.

Francis hung his coat on the coatrack and walked over. Arthur was still laughing at something Alfred must have said, smacking his hand on the bar and shaking his head.

"I must have missed something good," Francis said with a cautious smirk.

Arthur picked his head up, wiping the laughter tears from his eyes.

Alfred turned around. "It was just a stupid story," he said, somewhat bashfully, Francis thought.

"It was a _good_ story," Arthur said, flashing a grin. One Francis had seen before.

Alfred ducked his head and rounded his shoulders. He shrugged.

"I'm sure it was," Francis said, taking in everything. "Arthur, before you go, I need a word. In private."

"Yeah, okay," Arthur said dismissively. He turned his attention back to Alfred. "So have you had a chance to listen to it yet? The record?"

Alfred scratched the back of his head with a nervous laugh. "Uh, n-no. Not yet. Been busy with school stuff."

Arthur's face fell. "Oh."

"But I will. Promise," Alfred said. He paid his tab shortly after and left, seemingly glad to be going.

Francis gave Arthur a significant look. "Arthur. A word."

They went into the back office.

"Well," Francis said, the moment the door shut, "I guess you found a way to make it up to him, yes?"

Arthur folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "Yeah. I followed your advice. Surprised?"

"I hardly think you did! Did you even _see_ his face? No. Of course not. You were too busy being Iggy Stardust!"

"'Stardust?'" Arthur glowered. "That was low. Even for you."

"I'm sorry, Arthur. You know I didn't mean it. I just...I don't want to see you fuck this up."

"Well thank you for that vote of confidence!" Arthur bit out. "What makes you think I will anyway?"

"Because this is exactly what you said you didn't want to happen. You didn't want just another fan, so why are you treating him like one?"

"I'm not - "

"Yes! You are. You're giving him the attention you think he needs so he'll stay with you. But that's not what he wants. I love you, Arthur, really I do. You're my dearest friend, so I wouldn't be saying this otherwise, but...sometimes you can be so selfish. He wants - no, he _deserves_ -to be loved just as much as you do!"

Arthur said nothing, his jaw reflexively clenching. He lit a cigarette and stared at the floor.

Francis took a deep, steadying breath and drew himself up. "I'm just sorry you can't see that," he said.

Arthur rubbed his forehead, refusing to meet Francis' eyes. He opened the office door. "I believe you have customers to attend to."

Francis stalked out, mumbling something in French. The door slammed behind him, making him jump and the pictures rattle along the hall. Francis paused to catch a breath. His heart thudded in his chest. He felt like he had just run a marathon. It was the first time he had ever really stood up to Arthur. They had had their disagreements in the past, and Francis was always the one to back down and let everything blow over. But this time...he just couldn't let it stand this time. Something had to be done. To be said. Else Arthur was going to keep repeating the same cycle over and over again, hurting himself more than he could possibly know.

.

Arthur spent that evening and the following day going over what Francis had said. So much so that, by the time he started his shift Saturday afternoon, he welcomed the distraction. But as the night wore on, as the crowd of people thinned out, he found himself once again thinking about it.

And it didn't help that Alfred stayed again to help him straighten up.

A hand lightly brushed the small of his back while he busied himself wiping down a table. Arthur instinctively tensed, until he realized it was only Alfred.

Arthur glanced up, forced a smile, and went back to his work.

"Hey," Alfred said, not moving his hand from Arthur's back. "What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" Arthur said, tensing again. He really did not feel like being touched right then. All of his nerve endings felt like they were on fire - and not in the good way.

"I don't know. You just...seem off. All week you've been acting...off. Well, I mean, off for _you._ "

Arthur puffed a small, deprecating breath, tossing the rag on the table. "Have I?"

Alfred nodded.

Arthur shrugged. "I guess I'm just..." He glanced up at Alfred, feeling suddenly helpless.

The look must have shown on his face, for next thing he knew, Alfred pulled him into an embrace, gently kissing his head, his cheeks, his lips.

Arthur let himself be kissed. He was too tired to put up a show. But then, he thought, what if Alfred noticed. What would happen? Would he think Arthur wasn't interested? Would he be hurt? Would he leave...?

Arthur couldn't stand the thought. He _had_ to make Alfred stay. He wrapped his arms around Alfred's waist, pulling them closer. His lips demanded a little more. Alfred obliged, his hands dropping down to guide Arthur's hips up. The sensation made Arthur's mind sing. He pulled away with a moan as Alfred's mouth moved to nip along his jaw.

A crazy idea struck him.

"My place?" he breathed.

Alfred stopped kissing him, looked him in the eyes a moment, and nodded vigorously.

They all but fell through the front door, Arthur vaguely wondering if he'd remembered to lock up the pub. All he could remember were hands. And a mouth kissing the back of his neck over and over again.

Arthur's flat was pitch black, save for the light of electric night streaming through the windows. He tripped over his feet or Alfred's and barely had time to right himself when Alfred pulled him close again, lips locking and fingers looping over Arthur's waistband. He untucked Arthur's shirt, starting to undo the buttons, fingers ghosting against warm skin. Arthur's stomach contracted.

"Nnn...don't," Arthur breathed, pushing Alfred's hand away.

Alfred pulled back, brow raising in concern. "Do you want to stop?"

"No, I...I mean, don't...under my shirt. L-leave it on."

He angled his face up again to kiss Alfred, but Alfred turned away.

"What's wrong?" Arthur said.

"I..." Alfred shook his head. "I don't feel right. I..."

"Why not?"

"Because it bothers you," Alfred said.

"What?"

Alfred brushed his fingertips down the front of Arthur's shirt. When they got to his stomach, Arthur shrank away.

"See? It bothers you."

"It doesn't... _bother_ me," Arthur said, attempting a laugh and folding his arms. He looked at the floor. "I just...don't _like_ what's underneath."

"Why?"

Arthur threw his head back and let out a heavy sigh, squeezing his eyes shut. "Don't. Not now. Don't ask me..."

"Arthur..." Alfred reached up to place a hand on his shoulder, but Arthur brushed past him, going into the living room.

He lit a cigarette and sank onto the couch, cursing to himself. _Way to ruin the mood, Arthur._

Alfred came over, sitting on the other end. "...Arthur, you should know, when I'm with someone, I'm with them completely. Intimately. In every sense of the word. So...if there's something you're not comfortable with, I-I wanna know. I want to know what it is. And if...I can help?"

Arthur exhaled a stream of smoke and hung his head, his face silhouetted against the window. He couldn't fight it any longer. Francis had been right. This kid _was_ different. He would tell Alfred - he _had_ to - though not all at once, and maybe not even the whole thing. But he would tell him. Alfred deserved that, at least.

"All right," Arthur said in a strained whisper. "All right." He stood up, switched on a lamp, and removed his shirt.

A long pink scar ran down the length of his stomach. Another one ran from the left side of his collarbone to his shoulder and down his arm, ending at the crook in his elbow.

"Not the prettiest in the world, is it?" Arthur said, gesturing to himself, his face pinched.

"...What - what happened?"

"Car accident." He felt himself starting to detach, as he always did when he caught sight of them in the mirror or he thought someone to be staring at the one on his arm the few times he had been careless and worn short sleeves. "Three cracked ribs and a bruised sternum, fractured collarbone, compound fracture here - " he gestured vaguely to his arm - "fractured my shoulder in four places. They...had to put a plate in, to get the bones to fuse. And this one - " he motioned to his stomach - "was from where they went in to...t-to stop the internal bleeding." Arthur heaved a shaky breath. He did something odd with his arms, like he was trying to cover himself. He pulled his shirt back on and buttoned it then sank onto the couch, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.

He took a final drag from his cigarette and put it out. "We had just finished recording 'Horrorshow Queen.' Ian - our drummer - and I were going to a party...or coming back from one. I can't remember. The last thing I _do_ know is that I was driving...and then I woke up in a hospital, surrounded by my manager and lawyers from the record label. And everyone telling me not to talk to anyone. They said...that the power steering had gone out as I was taking a curve."

"S-sounds like you were lucky to get out of that alive," Alfred said.

Arthur's jaw clenched. He reached for another cigarette. "Yeah, well...tell that to Ian's family. He didn't make it."

"Arthur," Alfred said gently, "it wasn't your fault."

Arthur puffed a bitter laugh of a breath. "...Right." He stared at his knees, smoking.

Alfred edged closer. He put an arm around Arthur.

"I've never told anyone that before. Except Francis. Always just said they were from surgery." Arthur put out his cigarette.

Alfred pulled him close.

Arthur rested his head on Alfred's shoulder. He smelled of citrus and pine, a hint of spice. A lavender smell. Arthur breathed deeply and tried to tell himself his eyes were watering because of the smoke. He should quit. He really should...

Alfred kissed the top of his head. "Thank you," he said, "for trusting me."

.

.

.


	4. Siamese Twins

**_A/N_** _Warnings: Long chapter is long. Rated M for...reasons ::cough:: yaoi ::cough:: Also, past drug use mentioned. And dat angst! JFC, dat angst... Slang to be aware of: "speedball" is a mix of cocaine and heroin injected intravenously, a "smackhead" is a heroin addict. Also, headcanon that says Roderich can get a bit cheeky when playing the piano (especially when he's had a little too much to drink). Thank you to everyone who's reviewed/followed/favorited!_

* * *

 ** _"Oh, you should see my trail of disgrace." ~ Felt, Primitive Painters_**

* * *

Arthur could not recall a time he had slept so contentedly, so peacefully.

He fell asleep with Alfred in his arms; he woke up with Alfred in his arms, feeling the gentle press of skin as his chest rose and fell with each breath. Alfred shifted in his sleep, his leg brushing against Arthur's. Arthur looked down at the sleeping blonde and buried his nose in Alfred's hair, letting out a long held breath. He still could hardly believe this was real.

Their sleeping arrangements were also considerably more comfortable this time. They were in Arthur's bed. Had gone up shortly after Arthur's revelation about the accident. His toes curled in his socks as he thought about it. He had not told Alfred the whole story - only the part that was relevant. If he had, he was certain Alfred would think him the most despicable being on the face of the earth...

Alfred's muscles tensed and stretched. Arthur let go, afraid he had been holding on too tight, as Alfred rolled over, eyes opening.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. "Did I wake you?"

Alfred shook his head and smiled, throwing a heavy arm over Arthur's side, nuzzling down under his chin.

"You have that look on your face again," Alfred said sleepily.

"I do?"

Alfred nodded. "Mmhmm. Whenever you're worried or thinkin' about something too much...you have a look." He suddenly shivered, pulling himself closer. "Cold."

Arthur smirked, arching a brow. "You should have worn more than just your underpants to bed."

He felt Alfred grin against his neck. "Oh, like you and your socks?" A toe prodded the ball of his foot.

Arthur shifted his foot away. "You could have borrowed some of my clothes."

"Didn't wanna stretch 'em," Alfred yawned. "Skinny." A finger poked at his side.

"Stop it - stop!" Arthur laughed, trying to swat away Alfred's hand under the blankets. "And when I said that, I meant it as a joke."

Alfred hummed a response.

"Did you fall back asleep?"

"...Maybe."

A smile crossed Arthur's face, one that was neither mocking nor forced, but genuine. He wasn't sure the last time he actually _honestly_ smiled. Seemed he had been doing it a lot more lately, ever since he met Alfred. And laughing. That felt good, too. Sure, he laughed with Francis, but that was a friendship laughter. This was something different, something more...

As he watched Alfred sleep, he never thought he would be capable of feeling this happy ever again. He never thought he deserved it and hardly would have allowed it. He knew, from that first night at the pub, Alfred was the type to get under his skin. He just didn't know to what extent. And it did scare him how fast it progressed. It was meteoric. Anything with a start so fast and sudden was bound to come down crashing. He was proof of that.

The smile slid away from Arthur's face, replaced by the look Alfred had noticed earlier. He knew it would end. Eventually. They were two completely different people, heading in opposite directions. Alfred's life was on the verge of beginning, whereas Arthur's had already begun. The best he could hope was for Alfred to realize it too.

He felt Alfred's arms tense up, pulling him closer, as if somehow he had read Arthur's thoughts. He knew it was absolutely absurd to think that, but at the same time it sent a strange feeling shooting through him. One of caring and concern for Alfred coupled with shame at his own defeatist attitude. He was doing it again. Shutting things down before they even had a chance to begin. But what if, _what if_ he allowed himself to keep this happiness, just this once? What if he let it fill him and it chased away all those dark thoughts? Maybe then, when the time did come to end it, it would not hurt as bad...

Alfred's arms relaxed again. He fell back into an easy sleep. Arthur watched him a few more moments, then pressed a light kiss to the top of his head and closed his eyes.

.

Days passed. Then weeks. November drew ever nearer. And Arthur's once regimented life was now colored with moments. Moments with Alfred. They spent nights together, went out to eat together, rode the ferry across the river, went shopping along Market Street...

But always it was the little moments, interspersed between the bigger ones, that mattered more to Arthur. Like the time Alfred tried to impress him with his cooking skills at breakfast and ended up burning the bacon so bad, it stuck to the pan and they had to just throw it away, pan and all. Or the time when they were watching a football match and Alfred said what a lame team West Ham was, not knowing it was Arthur's favorite, and Arthur threw a couch pillow at his face, which instigated a pillow fight so epic, by the time it was over neither one could recall what started it in the first place.

Some of the best times, Arthur thought, were when they just went for walks around Hamilton Square or by the embankment, not really talking or doing anything other than simply _being_ together...

But always, _always_ lurking between those moments were reminders of his past. It was inevitable. Bound to happen. Hell, he expected it, especially after showing Alfred his scars. But that didn't stop it from catching him off guard. He was still figuring out how to live his life - his _new_ life - with Alfred, while simultaneously dealing with things he had tried to bury.

"I finally listened to your album," Alfred said one day as they walked through the park.

Arthur's pace slowed. The wind coming in off the river whipped around them, tugging at the hem of Arthur's coat. "Oh, really?" he said, sinking his hands into his pockets. He had nearly forgotten he'd given Alfred the record.

"Yeah." Alfred dropped back, matching Arthur's pace. "I think I liked it better than your first! I can't believe it didn't do well."

Arthur bowed his head and sniffed, the wind making his nose run and eyes water. "...That's because it got released right after the accident." He found a bench and seated himself on it. Alfred sat beside him. "The label insisted," Arthur continued quietly. "Thought it might make a bigger splash...you know, sort of d-downplay what had happened...But it didn't work out that way." Arthur puffed out a bitter laugh and shook his head. "Idiots. I mean, obviously we couldn't tour while I was in...g-getting fixed up. And we had no drummer," he said, voice catching on the word. Arthur cleared his throat and lit a cigarette. "So there was no way to promote it."

"I'm sorry," Alfred said. The wind had turned his nose and cheeks a bright red. He hunched his shoulders, giving a slight shiver.

"Don't be," Arthur said in a biting tone.

Alfred seemed to shrink away at that.

Realizing his mistake, Arthur's face quickly adopted an apologetic look. "W-what I meant was...I think it was for the better. In the end."

Alfred managed a small smile before shivering again. "C-can we go somewhere warmer?"

Arthur nodded and toed out his cigarette.

They went to a small cafe for coffee near the metro station. Alfred needed to head back across the river soon for afternoon classes.

"What brought you over here, anyway?" Arthur asked as he sipped his cappuccino.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, surely there are plenty of pubs in Liverpool, probably a few right close to the university. Why not play at one of those? Not that I'm complaining, mind," Arthur said.

The tips of Alfred's ear began to glow red. "Um...actually...i-it was Francis," he said with a nervous grin. "We met at a club. Near the campus. And he tried flirting with me, and when that didn't work, we just wound up talking."

"I might have known," Arthur said with an eye roll and a grin.

Alfred laughed into his cup, then glanced at his watch. "Oh! I need to get goin'!" He downed the rest of his coffee and stood. "I'll see you tonight." He leaned in for a kiss, but, remembering how Arthur had reprimanded him once about overt displays of affection in public when he had kissed him on the ferry, ended up just taking Arthur's hand a moment, brushing his thumb over the back.

.

Later that evening, as Arthur dozed on his pillow, Alfred lay beside him, propped up on one elbow, rubbing small circles on the Englishman's tense back.

"My roommate is starting to think I no longer exist," Alfred said.

"Really?"

"Mmhmm. Look like he'd seen a ghost when I walked in this afternoon."

"Well...we could always go there, if you prefer."

"Where?"

"Your place," Arthur said. "I'm sure it gets expensive, commuting across the river so often."

Alfred gave a small laugh. "Nah, it's okay. I'm a rich kid from Harvard, remember? Besides, my roommate doesn't exactly know my preferences, so...And I like coming over here. Not as noisy."

They had gone out to eat for supper, then gone up to bed early, Arthur complaining of a headache that started when he phoned his London office after Alfred left that afternoon. It seemed he would be spending the better part of November there. And he was not looking forward to it. Playing host to _that_ Austrian once again - the deal with the friend of his cousin's in Munich having fallen through. But the Austrian, he could deal with. That really wasn't what had upset him. It was the realization that he would be spending a whole month away from Alfred. Their time together already seemed too short. Did the fates really have to snip out another chunk?

"How can someone as skinny as you have this many knots?" Alfred said, as he worked a particularly stubborn grouping of muscle.

"No idea," Arthur said into his pillow. He winced, twitching his back at the friction caused by the fabric of his shirt rubbing over his skin.

"Sorry," Alfred said. A pause, and then: "Take off your shirt."

Arthur's neck tensed. "...You know how I feel about that."

"It would make this a whole lot easier. And you're with me. It's okay. It's only us."

Arthur sighed. "All right." He whipped his shirt over his head and flung it across the room. He slid his arms under his pillow, hugging it close. "There, now. Better?"

"Much."

Arthur let out a low moan of appreciation as Alfred worked a spot under his shoulder blade.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" Alfred said.

"Most likely the whole month," Arthur said. "I might be back for a week, but...it all depends."

"I could always take a train down. You know, come visit for a weekend."

"...Maybe. We'll see. Like I said before, I won't really know how busy I'll be until I'm there."

"I'm gonna miss you, old man."

Arthur grinned against his pillow. "What do you think you'll do, when I'm gone."

"I dunno," Alfred shrugged. "Mope. Cry. Write long sappy letters with no intention to send them."

They burst out laughing.

"Nah," Alfred said after a moment. "I'll probably just bug Francis until you come back."

Arthur hummed a response as Alfred worked another knot of muscles loose.

"But I do mean it," Alfred said. "I will miss you."

"...I know," Arthur said. "I'm...trying not to think too much about it."

Alfred grinned and kissed the back of Arthur's neck. Tiny ripples of goose flesh erupted up and down Arthur's arms. He hugged the pillow tighter.

"How's your head feeling?"

"Better," Arthur said drowsily. "Thank you."

Alfred ran his thumb up and down Arthur's spine, kissing his shoulder. "No problem."

They lay like that for a few more moments, Alfred on his side, pressed against Arthur, his hand now working the small of Arthur's back, lips pressing light kisses up and down his neck. Arthur could feel Alfred's desire starting to swell.

After he had shown Alfred his scars, Alfred had backed off considerably. Anything they shared together since then only happened because of Arthur's insistence. And all it ever amounted to was a quick fuck. Arthur always kept his shirt on, hurriedly dressing the rest of him once it was over, never missing the somewhat sad look in Alfred's eyes.

He knew Alfred wanted more.

Intimacy.

That was the word he had used - but Arthur could not give it to him. He would not give up control of that part of himself, too afraid of what might happen.

But tonight...

Tonight felt...different.

Like a part of him had awoken.

Arthur turned on his side, facing Alfred.

Alfred's brow furrowed a moment, his eyes taking all of Arthur in.

Arthur shifted his hand, automatically covering the scarring on his shoulder, and glanced away.

Alfred took his hand, kissing the back of it. "It's okay," he said softly. "You're with me. It's just us, remember?"

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to keep his lips from trembling. He gave a swift nod and pressed his lips to Alfred's.

Alfred took Arthur's hand and slid it around his waist, pulling him closer. He cupped a hand to Arthur's cheek, their lips meeting again.

Arthur's stomach tightened as their skin touched, heart hammering in his chest, but Alfred didn't notice, already deepening the kiss. Alfred's breathing was heavy and slow. Arthur tried to match it, to steady his heart rate.

Skin brushed skin again, closer with each breath, until they breathed as one and Arthur finally let go.

Alfred entwined his legs with Arthur's, hips rolling up.

Arthur trailed his lips down Alfred's neck to nip and suck under the jaw, pausing to remove his boxers. Alfred did the same, pushing himself up into a seated position. He took Arthur by the waist, positioning him on top, grinding against him, already wet. Arthur wrapped his legs around Alfred, sucking in a breath at the sudden pressure as Alfred entered him.

Alfred moaned against his neck, lips kissing and sucking Arthur's collarbone.

Arthur's breath hitched. His heart began to speed up. He looked down to see Alfred looking up at him.

"Okay?" Alfred breathed.

Arthur nodded, placing a hand on either side of Alfred's face and kissing his lips.

Alfred guided his hips in a measured motion, up and down. Arthur fell into the rhythm, synchronizing his breathing to Alfred's.

Alfred shifted his hands, one steadying Arthur's back, the other closing around his length, working him in the same rhythm, long and slow and intense.

The world melted away. All other sensations receded. Nothing existed but the two of them. They moved as one, hearts beat as one. And Arthur was sure, as he looked into Alfred's eyes, he was seeing himself for the first time through the eyes of another. He gave himself over as he came. Alfred's lips were at his throat, a panting breath as he climaxed. Wave after wave left him. Then the world crashed back in around him. A rushing sound was building, building to a crescendo. The sound, the screaming of his own head.

Alfred was looking up at him. A wrinkle of worry. A hand went to his face, his cheek. He absently took the hand, kissing the fingers, and pushed the sound back.

But it continued to linger.

.

Later that night, as Alfred slept, Arthur crept out of bed, retrieving his shirt from the corner where he'd flung it, and went downstairs for a smoke. He rummaged in his liquor cabinet until he found the whiskey and took it over to the couch, not bothering with a glass, and idly flipped though channels on the television. He brought the bottle to his lips, thumb ceasing its channel surfing and landing on some late night infomercial. He didn't want to think. Didn't want to sleep. He just wanted to be numb.

It was almost dawn when the hiss of the television switching to static jolted him awake. He must have passed out at some point. Arthur looked around, confused for a moment, until his eyes landed on the half empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. The events from last night came flooding back. Arthur rubbed his face, raking his hands back through his hair, mussing it even more. He felt like shit, and not just because of the amount of alcohol he'd had to drink. But because he'd left Alfred. He did what he always did. He ran. After having a night that was, for him (and for Alfred too, he was quite certain), incredibly intense and very personal, he ran. Left Alfred to sleep alone. Hadn't done that in a long, _long_ time. And Alfred was bound to hate him once he found out...

Arthur pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, leaning his head back against the couch.

The house was silent, save the static from the television. If he was really, _really_ quiet, he might be able to sneak back to his room...

Arthur pushed himself up, switched off the T.V., hid the bottle, and began tip-toeing up the stairs.

Alfred was still asleep.

Arthur let out a quiet sigh of relief. He carefully lowered himself into the bed, checking to make sure Alfred wasn't awake every time he dared move a muscle. Once he was back under the covers, he pressed his face to his pillow and willed himself to sleep.

.

It was the light of the early afternoon sun streaming in that woke him. Alfred kept his eyes shut a few moments longer, stretching his legs and reveling in its warmth and the warmth of the body sleeping next to him. He cracked one sleep filled eye, then the other, stretching his arms now and retrieving his glasses off the night stand. He settled them on his nose and propped himself up on his elbow, watching the man beside him.

Arthur slept sprawled on his stomach, one arm and one leg flung over the edge of the bed, as if he fell asleep trying to slide out of it. Alfred stifled a laugh, brushing a kiss against the back of his neck.

Arthur's mouth twitched. He mumbled something in his sleep, and Alfred couldn't help but snicker.

The sound startled Arthur awake, one green eye flying open, then the other, as he took in his surroundings. He picked his head up, immediately regretting it. His head felt like it had been cleaved open. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting it fall back against the pillow.

"Sorry," Alfred whispered.

Arthur could hear the grin in his voice. He said nothing, praying for his head to stop pounding.

A hand ran over his back. "Found your shirt, I see."

"Mmm."

A leg twined around his. "And what is with you and the socks? I swear, you never take them off."

"Mmm."

A nose brushed behind his ear, lips kissing his jaw. "You just like sleeping fully clothed? Is that...your thing?"

Thoughts were hard to form. "Well, you sleep...naked enough for the both of us, so..." And even harder to say. Did that even make sense? God, how he wished his head would just...

A giggle. "Like I said, I don't wanna stretch your stuff. Although, I guess I could start bringin' a gym bag or somethin'. You know, with extra clothes. Would that be okay?"

"Mmm."

A grin against his neck. A toe hooked over the top of his sock.

"Stop." Muffled. He moved his foot away.

A laugh, as the toe found his foot again.

"Alfred, please." Stern.

The toe moved away as its owner propped himself back up. "Sorry."

A hand on his back. "Are you...o-okay?"

"...Fine. I'm just...tired. My head. Still hurts."

"Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize." A groan, as he rolled over onto his back, squinting up into startling blue.

"I'm s-, ah, I mean..." A nervous grin. "I guess it's just habit."

"What? Apologizing for things that aren't your fault?"

The blue seemed to dim a moment. Then: "You want any aspirin?"

Arthur shook his head, suddenly wishing he hadn't. When the world stopped spinning and he regained focus, it was to find Alfred staring in wide-eyed horror at something on his bureau.

Arthur turned his head, following Alfred's gaze. It fell on the clock radio. He squinted to read the bright red numbers.

"Half past noon?"

"Goddammit!" Alfred groaned, falling back against the pillow. "I can't believe I slept through Quantitative Econ!" He heaved an annoyed sigh, rubbing his forehead.

" 'S just one class," Arthur drawled, curling onto his side.

"Yeah, but it's the _one_ class I really can't afford to miss. I'm _this_ close to failing. And if I flunk that, then...might as well sign up for another fucking year at Harvard. Oh, dad'll just _love_ that." He folded his arms over his chest, glaring petulantly at the wall.

Arthur muttered something but was rendered incomprehensible by his pillow (and his very much still inebriated state).

"What'd you say?"

"I _said_ ," Arthur began, picking his head up, his voice almost a yell, "maybe it's a good thing, then, that I'm leaving!" He buried his head once more in his pillow, his voice still ringing in his ears. He drew the blankets up, trying his best to fight the churning in his stomach.

The mattress shifted as Alfred pushed himself up. "What...what are you sayin'?"

A hand on his shoulder. "Arthur?"

"What?" Arthur grumbled, giving up any hope of sleeping off his hangover.

"W-what did you mean? It's good you're leaving?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Arthur snipped, rolling onto his back and pressing his fingers to his itching eyes. "Without me around, you won't have anything to distract you. You can catch up on your studies."

A puff of a laugh. Relieved. "You don't think I'll be just as distracted? Missing you?"

The mattress shifted again. Acute pressure. A hand pressing down. A shadow over his vision. Arthur's hands moved up to rub at his temples, his eyes cracking open. Alfred was leaning over him, lips inches from his, when he stopped. And sniffed.

"...Is that...were you...drinking?"

Arthur's eyes fully opened as Alfred sat back up, the sudden brightness stinging. Arthur winced and rubbed his eyes again.

"Arthur! Answer me."

"Yes! All right? Yes. I had a-a drink." Arthur pushed himself up, sitting back against the pillows. "I...couldn't sleep last night, so I - I went downstairs for a smoke and had a drink."

"Just one?"

A huff. Exasperated. "Yes. Just one." He drew his knees up, arms over his stomach. The room kept wanting to spin and he was quickly realizing sitting up was not a good idea.

"Really?" An eyebrow cocked. Mocking. "'Cause you smell like more than just a nightcap. You don't have a headache. You're still wasted."

A hand, reaching. "Alfred, I'm...s-sorry. I - " His voice stuck in his throat as he fought back a wave of nausea.

"I don't fucking believe this." The mattress dipped then sprung back at the sudden relief of pressure as Alfred stood. "I don't _fucking_ believe this!" Hands, shaking, trembling as they pulled on jeans and t-shirt. "A-after...what happened last night. What we - " Alfred pressed his lips tight. The shrug of a shoulder as he zipped up his hoodie. Overwrought. "But it's okay because obviously it meant nothing to _you_ because my boyfriend - or whatever the fuck we are - is an emotionally distant asshole!"

Arthur scrubbed his fingers over his face, Alfred's voice reverberating in his skull.

"Alfred, please..." A whimper. Eyes squeezing shut, a hand covering his brow. He was trying so hard not to be sick. "Tell me what I - can do..." His tongue was having trouble with words again.

But Alfred just shook his head, snatching up his tennis shoes and slamming the bedroom door behind him. His feet thundered down the stairs. The pounding in Arthur's head intensified. He sat up, swinging his legs down. The front door opened and closed as Arthur made it to the toilet just in time, retching up his stomach.

He heaved a few more times until he had nothing left to give but air. He fell back against the bathtub, smacking his head against its edge. He clenched his teeth against the blossoming pain but did not move, the enamel feeling cool against his hot back. He drew his knees up, starting to shiver as his body recovered. He'd fucked up. And he needed to fix it.

.

Never before had he felt so out of place. He even did his best to look the part - denim slacks, V-neck shirt, scarf, and blazer - but it only served to enhance the feeling he simply did not belong.

Arthur leaned against a pillar, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He'd always heard college was different. But as he looked around, he wasn't too sure. There seemed to be the same cliques, the same groupings of people. The only difference was, instead of trying to look cool, everyone seemed to be trying to look and sound smart. It had been over two decades since he last set foot on any type of school grounds. And that had been secondary school. He got his diploma at sixteen and that was that. Growing up, he knew he only ever had one option: joining his father down at the docks when he was of age. There was no point in him continuing onto A-levels. College was out of the question. Financially and academically. He barely passed his final year of school, having thrown all his energy and effort into his band, which eventually paid off. Arthur took a final drag the toed out his cigarette.

"E-excuse me?" A voice said.

Arthur looked up to see an Asian girl standing before him, her fingers clutching the edge of a campus map. Behind her, her parents were taking turns glancing around nervously and arguing in a language he did not recognize.

"Yes?" Arthur said.

"How do we get to Admissions?" She held out her map.

Arthur's eyes flicked down to it. "Um..." He wasn't even sure how _he'd_ managed to find his way around, let alone even begin to locate where, exactly, they _were_ on that map. He looked at the girl. Apologetic. "I really have no idea."

Her face fell. "Oh. You're not a professor?"

The shock must have shown on Arthur's face, for next thing he knew, she was regarding him with a guarded curiosity. "Do you... _go_ here?"

"Uh, no. 'Fraid not." He tried to smile, to set her at ease. He had a feeling it wasn't working. "I'm just...waiting on someone. A-a friend."

The girl sighed, half annoyed and half desperate. She turned back to her parents conversing in their own language a moment before setting off, every now and then the mother shooting Arthur a narrow-eyed look over her shoulder, leaving him again feeling too old to be allowed.

Maybe he should have stuck with his eyeliner and black t-shirt, he mused. Less chance of people talking to him when he looked like a punk. He lit anther cigarette.

.

Alfred almost did not recognize him as he exited the economics building that afternoon. Really, the only thing that had any resemblance to Arthur at all was the hair. And the cigarette. He would have laughed had he not been feeling so anxious, the memory of how they parted a mere four hours ago still fresh in his mind.

The distance across from where he and Arthur each stood seemed to stretch infinitely on. He thought about ducking down through the crowd of students as they descended the stairs, but his feet lost the ability to move. As the crowd quickly thinned, he realized his chances of escaping undetected were diminishing. But still he could not move.

As if on cue, Arthur glanced up.

It was hard to read his face, to tell what he was thinking, as Alfred watched him from the top of the stairs. Arthur's head cocked slightly to one side. A question. And Alfred knew he had no other choice. He sunk his hands deep in his pockets, inhaled deeply, and descended the steps.

"Surprised to see you here," Alfred said, doing his best to hide his nerves with a crooked grin. "How did you even know where I'd be?"

"Well, contrary to what you may think, I _do_ listen when you speak. I'm considerate that way."

Alfred smirked. "Been here long?" He nodded down at the ring of cigarette butts around Arthur's feet.

Arthur cleared his throat and shrugged, trying to appear casual. It would have worked, Alfred thought, if he hadn't been holding himself so stiffly.

"Maybe two hours," Arthur said, blowing out a cloud of smoke and crushing his cigarette out under his boot. "Most of it spent walking around this bloody campus trying to find this bloody building."

"Sobered you up some, I bet." The words flew out of Alfred's mouth before he had a chance to think. He looked at the ground, prodding a rock with his shoe.

Arthur winced, his hand twitching. "Alfred, please don't."

"Don't what?" Arms folded. Challenging.

"Don't be upset with me. You don't understand - "

"How can I not, Arthur!?" Alfred exploded, arms flying in a wide arc. "What is there to understand? We spent a night - "

"Keep your voice down," Arthur pleaded, noting the looks they were getting from some students.

Alfred drew a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. "We spent a night together," he continued in hushed tones, "the most wonderful night we've had together, and then I find out in the morning my boyf- _you -_ got plastered afterwards. How the hell can I not be mad at you? Do you have any idea how that made _me_ feel?"

"I'm sorry, Alfred." Arthur's hand twitched again, as if he meant to lay it on Alfred's arm but restrained himself. They were in public, after all. "I told you before. It's nothing to do with you. Believe me. It c-could never be you...you're p-perfect and brilliant and - " Arthur sniffed and looked at the ground, the blue of Alfred's gaze too intense - "and right. You're right. About me. I'm an emotionally distant a-arsehole."

He continued to stare at the ground, waiting. Waiting for more words of blame, for Alfred to lay into him. And then he could yell and scream back and then that would be that. What he did not expect, however, was the feeling of a hand, heavy and warm, on his shoulder. He looked up to see Alfred pulling him close. Arthur instinctively tensed, wanting to push away, but Alfred held on.

"You're not goin' anywhere," he murmured, and Arthur could hear the grin in his voice and smiled in spite of himself, laying his head on Alfred's shoulder.

"What do you think people passing by will make of two blokes hugging?"

"They can go screw themselves. That's what I think," Alfred said. "This is hug therapy."

"For me or you?"

"Both," Alfred said. A pause, and then: "...Did you mean all that stuff you said?"

"What stuff?" Arthur pulled back so he could peer once more into endless blue.

A guarded look spread across the brazen American's face. "The stuff...a-about me. You know, being perfect and brilliant and whatever."

Arthur's lips spread into a hesitant smile. "Of course I did, Alfred. How could I not?"

"Yeah," Alfred breathed, seemingly relieved. "Yeah. I was being...I don't even know. 'M sorry - "

"Don't apologize."

"Right! I'm sor-uh, I mean...it's just...i-it's been awhile, y'know? Since anyone's ever said nice things. To me." He tried to smile.

It struck Arthur, then, that he wasn't the only one who had built up walls around himself. Alfred had them, too. But whereas Arthur steadfastly held up his defenses until pushed over the edge, Alfred let his down in bits and pieces. Testing the waters. Trusting.

Arthur sniffed in the cold air, the beginnings of the full weight of Alfred's trust settling on his shoulders. He pulled away, unsure whether he was ready to bear it just yet.

"I got something for you," he said, reaching for the inner pocket of his blazer. "It may have been presumptuous or it may have been the arsehole part of me trying to apologize, but...well, here."

He held out a folded envelope.

Alfred took it and opened it. "...A train ticket?"

Arthur nodded.

"But this is for London...in a month. I thought you said you might be too busy..."

"I did. And I might be. But I..." Arthur swallowed, raking a hand through his hair. "I can't stand the thought of not seeing you for that long, all right? I'm selfish."

Alfred smiled, his eyes shining overly bright. He threw his arms around Arthur, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"Thank you," Alfred breathed.

Arthur clenched his jaw. "You're welcome," he said, all too aware of what little time they had left together. He placed a hand on Alfred's back.

.

 **November, 1987**

Alfred stood, staring up at the row of buildings in front of him. This could not be right, he thought, as he checked and re-checked the address Arthur had scribbled down just before he left for London. He suddenly felt like he was five years old again, staring up at the brownstone house his parents had just bought in Manhattan. There was _no way_ Arthur could live here. Alfred glanced up and down the sidewalk, hoping he could ask someone for help, but it was blessedly free of any pedestrians. His cab had already snuck off into traffic.

Alfred swallowed, shouldered his bag, and went up to the door. He located a brass nameplate marked "A. Kirkland" next to a buzzer and gave it a hesitant press.

A small speaker crackled to life with a terse "Yes?"

Alfred pressed the intercom button. "A-Arthur?"

A pause, and then: "Be down in a moment."

Alfred cupped his hands on the leaded glass and peered in but couldn't see much except a dimly lit hallway and a set of dark stairs. Within minutes, he heard the sound of feet approaching, followed by a familiar set of legs and torso as Arthur descended. He was still wearing his dress pants, from work Alfred guessed, with a button up shirt and sweater vest. He had a hand pressed to his forehead, looking exhausted, if not also a bit distracted. His smile was somewhat wan, but nevertheless warm, as he unlocked the door.

As he glimpsed Alfred standing there, Arthur felt he had come back to life. He had been beginning to doubt, as November dragged on, that the past two months had ever truly happened. He had spent days in conference calls, daydreaming about nights at his pub, absently humming the songs Alfred sang. He booked an orchestra, scheduled and rescheduled studio time to fit that damned Austrian's tastes all while caught up in the memory of a serene blue gaze as the words _Like the Beethoven symphony?_ danced around his head. Sometimes he wondered if he'd made it all up. He felt himself slowly shutting down, growing more numb each day, as the doubt took over.

But now...

Seeing Alfred here, now...he felt life breathed into him as never before.

He swept the American into a waiting embrace, feeling the cool press of Alfred's cheek against his.

Alfred, momentarily taken aback by this sudden and open display of affection, quickly recovered and brought his arms up to wrap around Arthur, planting a kiss on the side of his neck.

Arthur pulled back, angling his head up and carding a hand through Alfred's hair before bringing Alfred's lips down to meet his.

"God I've missed you," Arthur breathed.

"I can tell," Alfred grinned against his lips.

Arthur kissed him again. "I hadn't realized how spoiled I've been."

"Why don't we go inside and you can tell me all about it."

"Mmm. Afraid I can't just yet," Arthur said, taking Alfred's hand and leading him up to the fifth floor. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but it was so short notice anyway, and I knew you were in class, and then the train..."

"Arthur, what - what's going on?" Alfred said, giving the Englishman's hand a squeeze and panting to keep up.

"I'm having to throw together a bit of a last minute dinner party," Arthur said, once they reached the top of the stairs. "That damned Austrian. Well. I guess I shouldn't say that. He signed the contract and we've recorded a few tracks already, so I felt I ought to do it up right before he flies back to the continent on Sunday. I honestly didn't think we'd even get _that_ far."

"But that's _great_ news. I-isn't it?"

"Indeed," Arthur said, fishing in his pocket for a key. "Sorry for the climb, by the way. The lift has been down all week."

"It's no problem," Alfred said as Arthur unlocked his apartment door. "I like a little bit of..." Whatever he had been about to say died in his throat as he stared, open-mouthed, beyond the door.

Arthur's London flat could not have been more different than the one in Birkenhead. A penthouse suite, it occupied the top floor of a building along the embankment in Chelsea, commanding a spectacular view of the Thames and the city beyond. The interior was open concept, giving guests a breath-taking view of London no matter where they stood. A parlor grand piano between the sofa and dining table, dividing the two spaces. A door just beyond led to a small terrace outside. The flat was at once impressive, if not somewhat cold. It lacked the cozy, lived-in feel of Arthur's Birkenhead home and reminded Alfred of an office boardroom - lots of glass and high-end finishings, minimalist furniture and art. But the view, Alfred could simply not get over. Even his parents' brownstone could not compare to this.

"Jesus," Alfred breathed, letting his bag drop just inside the door as he took it all in.

"Not too bad for a Birkenhead lad, eh?" Arthur grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'll say." Alfred drifted over to stare out one of the windows at the river below.

Arthur came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Alfred's middle, and resting his chin on Alfred's shoulder.

Alfred placed his hands on top of Arthur's. They watched as the sky clouded over, a few flurries drifting down. A family walked by along the river, the children's noses pointed skyward as they eagerly tried to catch the falling flakes.

A thought struck Alfred as he watched the small white drops fall. "Arthur. You said...dinner party?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Um...it's just, well...your cooking's awful. And mine's not much better..."

Arthur puffed out a warm breath of a laugh against Alfred's neck. "That's why I'm having it delivered. I thought you were the caterers when you buzzed."

"Thank God," Alfred said. Then: "Wait. What am I going to wear?" He looked down at his sweater and jeans.

"Oh, don't worry. You're American. I'm sure the Aus-ah, I mean, _Roderich_ -and his wife won't mind."

Alfred huffed an annoyed breath through his nose. "I think I have a flannel shirt in my bag. Do you at least have a tie I can borrow?"

"Yes, I - " The sound of the doorbell cut Arthur off. "That's the caterers. Get changed if you wish. Ties are in the bedroom closet. That way." He gestured to his left as he pressed the intercom.

Alfred snatched up his bag and took it into the bedroom. He found a solid grey tie that didn't clash too horribly with his blue flannel shirt and sweater. And he swore the fates must have been whispering in his ear when he hurriedly packed whatever clean clothes he had that morning, for at the bottom of his bag were a pair of khaki pants. As for the shoes...well, he would just have to suffer through. And as Arthur had said, he _was_ American - albeit one who actually knew the difference between a soup spoon and dessert spoon, but an American nevertheless. A little social faux-pas, like wearing the wrong shoes, was easily forgiven.

Alfred emerged from the bedroom, adjusting his collar, as a flurry of people whizzed by with trays of food, Arthur stammering out apologies about the lift.

As the last of the food was brought in, the head caterer handed Arthur a slip of paper, going over cooking instructions. All he had to do was set the oven at the noted temperature for the prescribed amount of time.

Arthur was still looking apprehensive once the caterers left, his fingers crumpling around the sheet of instructions. Alfred was glad to see he had enough sense to order some plates of cold meats, cheese, and vegetables should anything unfortunate happen to their main dish. But fate continued to be on their side, it seemed. The meal came out perfectly.

Alfred laid out place settings while Arthur arranged serving platters and uncorked bottles of wine. At half past six, the doorbell rung again. Arthur left to receive his guests. Alfred fidgeted by the window in the kitchen, alternating between staring out at the darkening sky and bringing a glass of wine to his lips. It was a dry white he had poured himself to ease his nerves. Just because he had been to his fair share of dinner parties and other social gatherings did not mean he was anywhere at all comfortable attending them. Sure, he could smile and play the charismatic boy everyone knew, but inside he just wanted to scream. The feeling doubled when he met Roderich.

He could hear Arthur apologizing for the broken lift for what must have been the fiftieth time that day just before the door swung open.

A man stood in the frame wearing a deep blue suit, uttering a clipped, lisping "That's quite all right."

Alfred downed his glass of wine and promptly poured another. He had been around people like Roderich before, and always at the most intolerable of social functions. He now knew why Arthur couldn't stand him. Everything about him screamed "fussy" - from the handkerchief he used to pat his shining brow to the sharp crease of his suit to the tiny brown mole just above his lip. Alfred had the sneaking suspicion it was drawn on.

He sipped his wine, watching the Austrian's eyes sweep over the apartment, lingering a moment as they caught sight of Alfred.

Alfred smoothed his sweater down, deciding now was as bad a time as any for introductions. He had the feeling his manner of dress would not be readily forgiven by Roderich, even if he _was_ just an American.

Arthur introduced him as "friend" to Roderich and his wife, Elizaveta. Alfred had played enough of these social games to know never to let on the true nature of a relationship, but that didn't stop it from still hurting every single time he introduced himself, or another man, as simply "friend."

He held out his hand to Roderich. The Austrian gave a light press of his long, airy fingers. Elizaveta took his hand, giving it a hearty squeeze, a bright smile spread across her face. She could not have been more opposite her husband. Whereas Roderich was all stiff manner and poise, Elizaveta seemed utterly Bohemian. Her movements were grand and fluid, and, unlike the tight, controlled ladies Alfred had met at some of his father's political functions, she seemed hardly aware she was wearing a formal dress. The way she twirled and flitted about Arthur's apartment, admiring this or that piece of furniture or artwork, reminded Alfred of a ballerina. He bit his cheek to keep from smirking and decided, if he spoke at all tonight, it would most likely only be to Elizaveta.

They sat down to dinner and, as was the all too familiar custom, the sound of cutlery scraping against porcelain echoed around the table. Next would come the awkward attempts at small talk. Alfred prayed they would land on a topic to keep a steady flow of conversation going. He hated awkward silences. They made his mind whir and left him feeling more self conscious than he should...

A clearing of the throat snapped him out of his thoughts. Alfred blinked and looked up, hardly aware he had been staring at his plate with fork and knife clutched in either hand. Arthur was giving him a pointed look. Alfred furrowed his brow, unsure of what was going on.

Arthur cleared his throat again, giving Roderich a brief, apologetic look, before turning back to Alfred and saying in a gentle voice: "Roderich just was asking what it is you do."

Alfred swallowed, eyes widening a bit. "O-oh. Um, I'm a student, actually. University of Liverpool. Well, I mean j-just for this semester."

"Oh. Are you graduating?" Roderich asked.

"No. Well, yeah. But not until May. A-and I'll be, y'know, back in the States. I'm only here as an exchange student." Alfred's eyes darted around the table as he spoke. Elizaveta and Roderich seemed genuinely interested in what he was saying. Arthur, however, stared fixedly at his plate, his attention seeming to be focused on carefully chewing a bit of lamb.

"And where will you graduate from?"

"H-Harvard."

"Ah," Roderich said, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin. The mole didn't move. Maybe it was real after all, Alfred mused.

"What are you studying?" Elizaveta asked.

"Economics."

She and Roderich each gave a tiny nod and it seemed that would be it as far as dinner conversation, until Elizaveta piped back up and said: "So, how is it you know Arthur?"

Alfred felt the asparagus he had swallowed stick in his throat. He took a sip of wine and answered: "I play at his pub."

"What? Music?" Roderich said.

"Yes." And Alfred couldn't help but notice the Austrian perking up a bit. "Though it's mostly just stuff you'd hear on the radio."

"Nothing original?" Roderich asked with a hint of a smile.

Alfred shook his head. "No. I mean, yeah, I've written some stuff, but..." He glanced up at Arthur. The Englishman had a strange look on his face. "But I only ever played it once. I had a gig at this coffeehouse my freshman year. It was...I don't know. It felt...odd. Like I was giving away a bit of myself. If that makes any sense."

"Indeed it does," Roderich said. He gave Alfred another smile, genuine and understanding.

Alfred began to reconsider his initial impression. He took another sip of wine, the conversation flowing from music to travel as the guests warmed into their drinks. None more so than Roderich, as he spoke wistfully about his childhood home in the mountains of Tyrol. When Arthur casually mentioned Alfred had gone skiing in the Italian Alps, Roderich seemed to warm to him even more, asking him if he'd had a chance to see Austria. Alfred regretfully told him the only bit he saw was the Innsbruck airport as they were changing planes. They had finished the main course. Arthur excused himself to make after dinner coffee and open another bottle of wine before dessert, Roderich having nearly had an entire bottle of Bordeaux to himself.

"Well, you _must_ go back if you ever have the chance," Roderich said with a grand gesture of his wine glass, the dark claret dangerously close to spilling over the edge. "Innsbruck is a delightful city. Especially in the summer. There's always something going on."

Alfred said he would be sure to keep it in mind and was spared further conversation by Arthur bringing over the coffee.

"I must say, Arthur, that's a very fine Bösendorfer you have," Roderich said as he sipped his coffee. "How on earth did you get it up here?"

"Through the windows. I know some excellent piano movers."

"Would you mind if I played something?"

"Not at all."

Alfred shot Arthur a dubious look. He hardly believed the Austrian capable of standing, let alone playing the piano, given how much he'd had to drink.

Roderich sat himself down at the bench and lifted the lid, Elizaveta gliding over to stand at his side. His hands ghosted over the keys. He flexed his fingers a moment, before offering a clever smile and wink to Elizaveta as he struck the first few chords Alfred recognized as the opening movement to a Tchaikovsky concerto. His fingers danced gracefully, effortlessly over the keys. Alfred felt certain he could have played blindfolded. Roderich seemed lost to anything else but the piano.

Arthur quietly excused himself to the terrace for a smoke while Elizaveta and Alfred drifted over to the couch to listen to Roderich play.

He played for close to an hour, only stopping when Elizaveta rose and gently touched his arm.

"He would go on all night if I let him."

Roderich placed his hand over hers with a warm smile.

Alfred watched them, a longing tugging at his heart. He wished he could be as free and open with his affections, around people he hardly knew, without facing judgement. He looked at Arthur, now sitting next to him on the couch, looked at his hand resting on his knee. So close and yet a million miles away.

Friend.

The word Arthur used. And a word Alfred had used before. A word he would have to keep using. But for the first time, he was sure, he had finally found someone he wished he could openly call something more.

Alfred clenched his own hands into fists on his thighs, his jaw tightening. It wasn't fair.

Arthur stood to announce dessert. He poured everyone a final glass of wine once the cake was finished and raised a toast to Roderich.

The party began winding down around ten, with Roderich and Elizaveta taking their leave just after. Arthur saw them downstairs despite their many protests not to trouble himself. He climbed slowly back up, stopping once to catch his breath, shutting his apartment door with a muffled snap and leaned against it, a wave of exhaustion coming over him.

"If I have to climb those ruddy stairs _one_ more time tonight, it will be the death of me," he huffed.

"We need to get you in shape, old man," Alfred grinned. He placed a stack of used dishes and silverware in the sink.

"Mmm. What did you have in mind?" Arthur pushed himself off the door, shuffling over to the dining table.

Alfred caught him by the wrist and pulled him close. "I could think of a few things."

Arthur rested his head on Alfred's shoulder. "Does one of those things involve sleep?"

Alfred laughed, kissing Arthur's cheek.

"So. What did you think?" Arthur asked, picking his head up to gaze into brilliant blue. "That wasn't too horrid, was it? I feel awful, springing it on you last minute - "

"Arthur. It was _fine._ I've winged my way through more awkward dinner parties, thank you very much. And really, it was quite enjoyable. That Roderich...he's a bit of a character. And good call, by the way, using the caterers. I'm just glad you didn't order a turkey."

"Mmm." Arthur laid his head back down. "Why's that?"

"I never could stand the taste - or lack _of,_ I guess. Plus, it would be sacrilege because it's..." Alfred's usually bright voice seemed to lose some of its color. "...It's Thanksgiving back home. Well, the day _after,_ but still." He puffed out a breathy laugh. "Heh, guess I can't escape fancy holiday dinner parties, even over here. Come on," he said, straightening his back. "Let's get this mess cleaned up."

"It can wait 'til morning," Arthur said with a yawn.

"Sure?"

"Absolutely. I just want to go to bed."

"Okay."

Arthur pulled away, about to head to the bedroom, when he was stopped by an anxious look on Alfred's face.

"Alfred? What is it?"

"Hm? Oh, n-nothing. Just..." Alfred swallowed and bit his lip. "I-it's Thanksgiving and...w-well it's been awhile since I've talked to my family. I didn't really realize it until..." He trailed off, loosening his tie with a shy smile.

"Would you like to use my phone?"

"...Can I?"

"Of course. You can make up the charges later." Arthur kissed Alfred's cheek. He retrieved the cordless from the kitchen counter and handed it over, then went into the bedroom to change and give Alfred some privacy.

Alfred looked down at the phone a moment. The last time he called home was just after he arrived in Liverpool, letting his parents know he'd made it there safe. That was back in August. Alfred pressed his lips tight, his thumb brushing over the numbers. He glanced at his watch. It was just after five-thirty in New York. Not quite dinner time for them yet. If he called now, he might just catch them. If he stopped hesitating...

Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose, drew a deep breath, and dialed.

The phone rang four times before anyone answered.

"Hi, mom! Happy Thanksgiving!...Yeah, no, I know it is...Good. I'm in London...Just for the weekend...Well, that's because I, um, met someone...N-no, not exactly...He's a music producer...Yeah...Of course he's a guy, mom...Look, I'm sorry you and he feel that way - What?...Oh. They are?...Okay...Yeah. No, that sounds like fun...I'm sure it will be...Um, n-no. That's okay. I'm sure he's busy...Yeah, I figured. Could I talk to Matt?...Oh. He is? Well, I might try again, then. I'd really like to talk...What?...Oh. O-okay. Could you tell him I...Oh. Um, I dunno yet. Maybe a-after New Year's?...Yeah...Yeah...I'll let you know for sure. Talk to you guys later, I guess...Yeah...Okay. Love y-"

The other end clicked off.

Alfred fidgeted a moment, unsure of what to do. He had been unconsciously pacing Arthur's flat all during that phone call. He finally stilled, regaining his focus. He was in front of the door leading out to the terrace. He opened it, stepping out into the cold night. He still held the phone in one hand. Held it so tight he could have crushed it. He briefly entertained the notion of calling back, but what he would say, he hadn't a clue. An icy wind shocked all other thought from his mind. He looked numbly out over the river. The flurries from earlier had become a steady snowfall, giving the city a shimmering, misty shroud. He found it haunting yet oddly romantic - like the people who gush about Paris in the rain - if not also very lonely.

"Alfred?"

He turned.

Arthur stood in the doorway wearing pajamas and a dressing robe and his ever-present socks.

"It's freezing out there," Arthur said, shivering and hunching in on himself. "Come inside." He held out a beckoning hand.

Alfred stepped back in and shut the door.

Arthur reached up to dust off the frozen crystals clinging to his shoulders. "That was a rather short call. I was only joking about that charges."

Alfred tried to smile. "I know." He turned to the window, staring down at the phone. "My brother and his fiancee were visiting, so..."

"You have a brother?"

Alfred nodded. "Yep. Half-brother, actually." He puffed out a sad breath of a laugh and shook his head. "One of the family secrets."

He went over to the counter and placed the phone back in its cradle. "...My dad - the _Congress_ man," Alfred spat the word, "is not my dad. He's my _father_. _My_ dad died before I was born."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. He placed a gentle hand on Alfred's back.

"Me too," Alfred murmured. "He was...killed in action. Viet Nam. He and my mom weren't...they were high school sweethearts. So, you know, they weren't married. She was a waitress. In Texas. Then she met the dashing young city councilman from New York just after I was born. And that...was that. My little brother Mattie was born a year later." Alfred traced a finger over the countertop, digging his fingernail into a rough spot in the granite. A sad smile tugged at his lips. "Mattie's the perfect one. He never messes up. Gets good grades, has the right friends...dates the right girls...And I'm the fuck-up."

Alfred went back over to the window, folding his arms over his chest.

"You're not a fuck-up - "

"Oh, I'm not?" Alfred huffed. "Tell my parents that. My whole life, I always felt...not good enough. My father was never a _dad_ to me. He was a dad to Mattie, you know? Taking him to the park or playing board games or shit like that. He never did that with me. I only ever came along because...Mattie insisted. I didn't even know he wasn't my dad until I was twelve and about to go up to boarding school. Probably why I flunked that first year. My mom sat me down, when no one else was around, and told me. Showed me h-his goddamn picture and everything. Gave me his dog tags. And then the next day we drove up to Connecticut. And I - I remember being so _angry_ with them, but also relieved in a way. 'Cause it all finally made sense - " Alfred's voice hitched. He swallowed, trying to unstick his throat, but all that came out was a low whimper, like that of a wounded animal.

He whipped the glasses off his face, angrily pressing the heel of his hand to each eye.

"I'm s-sorry," he breathed, then doubled over.

Arthur caught him in time and helped him over to the couch.

Alfred's breath hitched as he fought to get control of himself. His hands would not stop shaking.

Arthur held him and rocked gently back and forth. "It's okay," he whispered over and over again, stroking Alfred's hair.

Alfred's fingers clutched at Arthur's robe, his glasses clattering to the floor. He buried his face in Arthur's chest, tears running down his cheeks.

When it seemed he had nothing left to give, Alfred just lay there, with his cheek and ear pressed against Arthur's chest, listening to his heart beating. Alfred was sure he had never heard a more wonderful sound.

"I h-hate the holidays," he said with a wet laugh and sniffled. "...I never should have called. S-stupid of me."

"They're still your parents," Arthur said quietly. He brushed his fingers through Alfred's hair, still damp from melted snow.

"I know. But...I just wish they could be _happy_ for me. I know they'll never accept me for...the way I am. And I don't want them to. I just...I want them to be happy that _I'm_ happy. Is that selfish?"

"No. It's not," Arthur said, kissing the top of his head.

Alfred righted himself, drying his eyes with his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm such a mess," he hiccuped.

"No you're not," Arthur said, bending to retrieve his glasses from the floor. "And stop saying that. You needn't apologize, understand?"

Alfred nodded, his chest hitching as he tried to get control of himself. He took his glasses from Arthur and settled them on his nose, curling up against the Englishman's side. He was still shaking, but not as badly as before. Arthur put his arm around him, stroking his hair until he stilled.

They went to bed shortly after, gentle kisses turning into desperate need as Arthur gave himself over, letting Alfred take control once more, though this time he left his shirt where it landed on the floor.

He awoke holding Alfred, Arthur's chest hot against his back. He rolled over, feeling the cool bite of early morning air on his skin, and rubbed his eyes.

Alfred began to stir. He turned over in bed until he found Arthur again, laying a heavy hand over his stomach. Alfred's eyes slowly opened, squinting to focus. He smiled when he saw Arthur.

"No shirt?" he said sleepily.

"No." Arthur kissed his brow.

Alfred entwined his leg with Arthur's. "Still the socks."

" _Always_ the socks."

"Why?"

"Because I have a...a _thing..._ about my feet." Arthur pushed himself up against the pillows.

"Like what?" Alfred asked, resting his head against Arthur's side.

Arthur sighed. "...I just don't like them, all right?" He wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulder.

"Is it like your shirt thing?" Alfred mumbled drowsily.

"Why do you care? I have my quirks just like you - hey!" Arthur retracted his arm as Alfred reached up to tickle under it. "Stop that!" He swatted Alfred's hand, giggling. "You are such a brat! It's too early - "

Alfred laughed and lunged at him, fully awake now. Arthur grabbed the covers, trying to draw them up, but Alfred snatched them away, flinging them to the other side of the bed. Arthur scrambled up, flailing and kicking, but he was no match for the American's much larger frame. Alfred sat on his thighs, Arthur playfully pummeling his back, until he realized what Alfred was doing. He was going for Arthur's feet.

Arthur began to kick in earnest, his smacks getting harder, but it didn't seem to faze Alfred, who had both hands on the Englishman's socks.

"Stop, Alfred! Please don't!" In a last ditch effort, Arthur twisted his body. Alfred tumbled off, the socks going with him.

The laugh was still on his face as Alfred righted himself, clutching the socks like some bizarre trophy. It quickly faded the minute he caught sight of Arthur.

The Englishman shook with a barely contained rage. "Fucking happy now!? I _told_ you to _stop!_ "

Arthur snatched the socks out of Alfred's hand and started to pull one over his foot. It was pitted and scarred, some of the holes the size of a pinhead.

"...A-Arthur," Alfred breathed. "What...?"

Arthur gave up trying to get the sock back on. He threw it on the floor with an exasperated cry. His hands would not stop shaking. He raked them through his hair, pulling as he did so. He drew his legs up, crossing them under him.

"Arthur?" Alfred reached a hand for his shoulder, but Arthur smacked it away.

"I told you to stop." Arthur's voice was thick, stricken.

"I'm sorry - "

"As you bloody well should be." He turned away, scooting to the edge of the bed and taking out a pack of cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand drawer. He lit one, planting both feet on the cold floor, feeling his toes crack as he flexed them. Arthur shook his head as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "I can hear you thinking," he said over his shoulder, "so just fucking ask the question."

Alfred clenched his jaw a moment, Arthur's words like a slap to the face. He swallowed past the growing lump in his throat and said: "What - what _was_ that?"

"That," Arthur began with a bitter puff of a laugh, "is the reason for everything."

"E-everything?"

"Yes." Arthur got to his feet, turning on Alfred so suddenly it made him startle, the look on his face wild. "It's the reason for this - " he pointed to his stomach and arm - "it's the reason I don't own a bloody car. It's the reason for _me_...f-for the way I _am!_ It's the reason _why_ I produce bleeding _classical_ music and not rock or metal. I'm too afraid if I go back to that world, I might...might slip... _"_ Arthur's hands began to shake again. The room was starting to spin. He sank into a chair, putting his hands into his hair. "It's the reason why I was a failure."

"Arthur, you weren't - "

Arthur's head snapped up with a harsh bark of a laugh. "Come off it. What do you know? I was a failure to myself, to my bandmates, to..." His voice trailed off. He slumped back in the chair, all the fight gone. His cigarette had burnt out. He tossed it into a tray and lit another one.

"I didn't tell you the whole story. About the car accident. I was afraid if I did, you would...think me a monster. Or something," Arthur said, his voice low, husky. He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Ian was our drummer, I told you that...but he was also my best mate. Known him since I was eight. He was the one who gave me my nickname. Growing up, I never would have thought we'd be friends. He used to tease me. Called me 'Icky Brows' 'cos of these bleedin' caterpillars on my face." Arthur scratched a thumb above an eyebrow with a sad, wistful grin. "Until one day, we're walking home from school, and he's yelling after me 'Oi! Icky Brows! Icky, Icky!' And I turn around and punch him in the face so hard he falls on his arse, and he's staring up at me gobsmacked, blood comin' out of his nose, and I shout 'Don't bloody call me that again!' And he says...he says 'All right. Can I call you "Iggy," then?' And I go 'Sure. Why not.' And I helped him to his feet, and we were best mates ever since," Arthur chortled, taking a drag from his cigarette. He tapped the ash off into the tray, his face becoming expressionless. "But the night of the crash...we were blitzed out of our minds. I don't remember if we were going to a party or leaving one, 'cos everything was like a party back then, and Ian was insisting we had to go to this other thing - I don't even know what - but he was far too drunk to drive, and I was speedballing. I thought I was okay 'cos I was on that rush from the cocaine. I was alert. I was..." Arthur swallowed, a haunted look crept across his face. The hand holding the cigarette began to shake. He brought it to his lips, taking a long puff before stubbing it out. "...And then we start driving and...n-next thing I know I'm in a b-bloody hospital." Arthur burst into tears, hiding his face in his hands.

Alfred was on his feet in seconds, gathering Arthur into his arms.

Arthur pulled away, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He sank onto the bed and lit another cigarette. Alfred sat down cautiously beside him, half afraid he would pull away again. But Arthur didn't move.

"You'd have thought I'd learned my lesson after that," Arthur said in a hollow voice. He shook his head. "It only got worse. I started injecting into my feet. Easier to hide. When you're a smackhead, they always look at your arms. My manager had me in and out of rehab for five years until finally giving me up as a lost cause. It's where I developed _this_ habit." He held up the cigarette. "Replace one with the other. Apparently it's morally objectionable to kill yourself through heroin abuse, but it's okay to do it gradually with lung cancer. The last time I shot up was just after my parents' funeral. Another bloody car accident. Like I'm cursed or something." Arthur raked a hand through his hair. "Anyway, Francis found out. But he didn't send me away. Instead he made me move in with him until I got clean. Haven't touched the stuff in ten years. I hate needles. Can't stand to look at them anymore. I turn into a blubbering mess if I have to get so much as a tetanus shot."

Alfred put his hand on Arthur's back, rubbing small circles over it.

Arthur blew out a final puff of smoke. "There now," he said, grinding out his cigarette. "You have everything. Everything there is to know about me and why I'm such a sodding failure."

"But you're not though - "

Arthur puffed out an incredulous breath. "Don't. Don't start. This - " he gestured around his apartment - "means nothing. All of it. Doesn't mean a damn thing. I used to send Ian's parents money every Christmas. Never heard a word back from them. Not a 'thank you' or 'fuck off, you wanker.' Nothing. Until one year I finally do. They had sent a Christmas card. In it was the last cheque I wrote them, voided. In the card, they wrote 'We don't want your money. We want our son back.'" Arthur's voice quaked, his eyes shining over-bright. "I will always be that boy from Water Street. And everything he was, and everything he did. I will always have that bit inside me. I'm a failure, Alfred. And don't try to tell me I'm not. I'm a failure and it's something I have to live with."

"But, Arthur," Alfred began, all too aware of how small his voice sounded, "it...it may _not_ have been your fault."

Arthur gave another sharp, deprecating laugh. Alfred shrank away at the ugly sound of it.

"Don't you see? That's the _worst_ part of it. The not knowing. I will never know, Alfred. I will never know _for sure_ what really happened. Whether it was...was _me_ or...whatever they told me. The ruddy power steering or some shit. Never. But the blame is still mine. I had no business driving that bloody car. I should have..." He faced Alfred, eyes brimming over with tears. Arthur swallowed, blinking them back. He shook his head, staring at his feet. "I failed my best friend. I fail everyone."

Alfred took his hand, entwining their fingers. "Not everyone." He kissed Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur grimaced. The spot where Alfred's lips had touched burned against his skin. His nerves were doing that thing again, where they felt like they were on fire. He suddenly found himself aware of everything, every sensation, from the fabric beneath his legs to the air against his back. And he wanted to run. To press the accelerator to the floorboard and drive away, away, away. Would, he thought, if he still owned a bloody car.

Instead he stared at his feet a few more numb moments, until his eyes felt dry and salty. He worked his fingers out of Alfred's grasp and said: "I think I'm going to go have a bath."

.

.

.


End file.
